


Druid of Holly and Yew

by Otters



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-19 18:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19138129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otters/pseuds/Otters
Summary: Instead of attending Hogwarts, Harry Potter was taken as an apprentice by a druid who taught him a more archaic form of magic. Now fully trained in the mystic arts of water and wood, he comes out of isolation to rejoin magical society and wage guerrilla warfare against Voldemort through ritual magic and alliances with the fae creatures of ancient Britain.





	1. Chapter 1

_There is a wand in a hand which is black with rot._

_A tree in a forest which is black with rot._

_A wand made from its wood, made black from rot._

 

_-+-+-_

 

There were no travellers this deep in the forest. A fell shadow has lingered over the trees for nine hundred years, driving away human encroachment. The only signs of mankind were scarce and scattered; the foundation stones of a water mill which had long fallen into disrepair and been swallowed up by the trees, the great iron wheel having rolled away to collapse on its side, caving in one side of the only bridge which crossed this span of the river.

He watched the bridge for a time, standing in a broad patch of weeds which must have once been the village square. Dark shapes flitted between the trees on the far bank of the river. The glint of moonlight on amber eyes was the only sign of colour.

This was the edge. Running water fed from a mountain stream cut straight across the outermost bounds of the curse. The magics of earth and sky were wild here, a leyline drawn above ground to follow the contours of the river from the peak to the sea. It would take the directed will of a wizard to push any malice past this natural barrier, and the curse had not been tended in over a decade. Even so, the unseen neighbouring enmity had driven away all former occupants of this ruined village.

A jewel-bright adder slithered across his boot. He stood there, waiting until the snake had passed on before stepping forwards.

Debris crunched under even his light footfalls. The adder hissed in alarm, and buried itself into the undergrowth.

As he left the safety of the bridge, his foot coming down on the distant bank, howls tore into the air. They were too raw, too angry to be ordinary wolves.

He had no choice now. This was their territory. It was too dark to trust his eyes, so he closed them altogether, trusting instinct and magic to steer him straight. He breathed deeply. The foulness in the air was not still; it moved to its own rhythm, dancing like the wind, but against its currents. He tensed. The howls were growing closer now.

Exhaling suddenly, he broke into a sprint. His eyes were still closed, but the arcane craft woven into his task this night would not let him stumble. Tree roots and leaves made for an uneven surface, occasionally broken up by wide paving slabs; a remnant of whatever forest path had been laid here over a thousand years ago.

The wetness of the foliage underfoot made it difficult to keep a solid purchase on the ground, but every time he slipped it only added momentum to his sprint. With his goal so close the only thing which could make him fall would be if he tried to stop.

The hot huff of breath signaled the approach of the werewolves. With his scent so near, they would not waste breath on howling. The next thing he would hear from them would be his own screams as they tore into his back.

There was no more time. And yet, he had not reached his destination.

He dove to one side.

The werewolf crashed through the empty air a moment later, a slavering mass of rage and hunger. It struck a tree headfirst, and rage replaced hunger as its sole driving force. The beast tore at the trunk of the tree with its claws, letting out a scream of fury, before turning back to the chase.

But that one moment was enough.

He opened his eyes again, feeling the guiding tug of ambient magic around him rise to a crescendo.

A yew tree stood before him, standing somewhat apart from all the surrounding trees. The earth at its base was dark and oily. The trees nearest to the yew were all sickly and deformed.

This was what he had come here for.

Ignoring the werewolf which was even now catching up, he drew a wooden dagger out from the inside pocket of his robes. Carved from mistletoe and enchanted on a moonless night, he had carried it for a year and a day until the magic within had matured.

The runes drawn alongside the blade began to glow, and then a sharp, acrid scent filled the air as the markings ruptured into blue fire. He drew the dagger up high, and then forced it into the trunk of the yew tree.

The bark split like the skin of an overripe fruit, sending rancid sap spurting outwards. He ignored the sting as it ate away at the exposed flesh of his hand, and pulled the dagger in a long line across the circumference of the trunk. The same blue fire burst out wherever the dagger's blade went, drawing an incandescent ring around the tree.

At the sight of the unnatural flames, the werewolf vanished into the trees.

When the circle was complete, the flames roared higher, sending spots flashing before his eyes. Sparks shot out from the tree, and the putrid, oily sap hissed as it burned. The furthest branches of the nearest tree were in the path of the flame, but it passed through them as if they were immaterial, burning only the yew.

Over time, the flames calmed, retreating back down to the original circle with only dead wood left behind. Eventually there was just a narrow band of blue light encircling the tree like a slender chain.

"The root of the wand is the tree," he murmured, tones heavy with the cadence of ritual. "And the root of the wizard is the wand."

He reached back into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out the broken halves of a wand. A red-gold phoenix feather could be seen from between splinters of holly. He placed them reverently at the foot of the yew, and then stepped back.

"First," said Harry Potter. "I took your wand. And then I'm going to take your magic. And then I'm going to take your life." He looked up at the sky. Smoke coiled languidly in the sky above him, blocking out all the light of the stars.

**Chapter One**

The mushroom, smooth and corpulent, lay on its side at the bottom of the basket. It was the last one, as big as a baby's head and almost the same colour, for all that it appeared to have been caved in on one side.

Harry picked it up, and sniffed deeply. A sweet pine aroma filled his nostrils, and as he breathed the colours of the world began to deepen. The edges of reds and purples broaden and stretched into shades normally unseen.

And then he exhaled.

"That's disgusting," he said, dropping the mushroom back in the basket.

A filthy hand darted out of the shadows, snatching the basket back. The skin was mottled with red and grey, every bit of it covered in that unclean marbling save for the green swell of a boil where the thumb and forefinger met.

"Fresh, that is!" screeched the figure lurking on the other side of the counter. It wore a heavy cloak with the hood pulled up over its head despite the awning overhead casting half the street into shadow. In the depths of the stall two un-candles burned away what was left of the light.

"You promised it was picked fresh by a hag," accused Harry. "It should have turned rancid the moment her hands touched it. Where are the blue scales, the shimmer-rot, the toxic spores? What could I possibly do without any toxic spores?"

The creature shrieked, startling nearby patrons of the other stalls set up in the impromptu market of Knockturn Alley. An unshaven man nearby with several missing teeth shivered, and pulled his cloak closer around himself despite the summer sun overhead.

"I picked it, I did!" the creature said. "Fresh two nights gone! Scrabbled through thorns and muck!" It hissed through its teeth, stepping forwards to lean over the countertop.

Harry sighed.

"Yeah, but you're not a hag. You're just a very ugly woman."

She swiped a hand under the counter, fingers curled inwards like a claw, and then pulled out a short, stubby twig of a wand which looked as if she'd made it herself. The tip of the wand flared with red light.

Harry's hair rustled in a momentary breeze, and then settled back down.

"See, you're just proving my point. What kind of self-respecting hag uses a wand?" he asked rhetorically. She gestured with the wand again, cursing loudly as she did so, and once more nothing happened.

"I'll give you a hint," said Harry. "The Disarming Charm works best on somebody who is actually armed."

The hooded woman spat in his face, cutting him off. He blinked, and brought a hand up to touch his cheek. It came away covered in a thick, sticky mucus. His skin began to itch where it had landed.

Harry looked at his fingers. They were beginning to swell, his fingertips already having changed to a desiccated umber colour.

"Ah," he said faintly. "Maybe just half of a very ugly woman. Could I trouble you to introduce me to your mother?"

A little while later, Harry had successfully navigated the winding streets to the address marked down for him on a scrap of parchment by the reluctant woman. He found himself on a terrace of narrow Victorian townhouse looked much like any other on the street, but every window was decorated with wide-bottomed flower boxes. Ivy ran up the face of the house on a loose trellis, covering almost half its surface in greenery. Chipped pots of painted-leaf begonias stood at either side of the doorstep.

Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the orange hues of street lights only added to the colours of sunset.

Behind the flowers, Harry could see the whitewashed silhouette of heavy wooden shutters. He checked the house number again. Three hundred and thirty-three. Three threes. This must be it. He crumpled up the piece of parchment he'd scrawled down the directions on, and absently dropped it on the floor.

As it fell, a gentle breeze picked up, pushing it along the street. As it moved across the pavement a crisp packet was caught in its wake and pulled along. A metre or so later, a cigarette butt joined them, circling in a gentle orbit of the parchment.

By the time they reached the end of the street some gum had unsealed itself from the paving stones to join the litter together into a sticky ball. It impacted against the outside of a black rubbish bag which lay at the foot of an overfilled green bin, and it stuck fast to it. This whole time, the breeze had never risen above the height of Harry's ankles.

He raised his hand, and knocked upon the door three times.

The door cracked open. The smell of fresh bread baking and warm spices - cinnamon and nutmeg - flooded out into the street.

"Oh! My Tulip mentioned that you might be stopping by," exclaimed a woman from inside. Her voice had a rich West Country burr to it. She tugged on the door, but the latch chain pulled tight, and it caught with a heavy thud. The woman clucked her tongue, and pushed the door back closed again. "Hold on a moment, love, where's that catch gotten to?"

The door clicked shut, and then again as the woman hauled the door open. Illuminated by the door, she had a stout frame topped with brown curls which were only just beginning to fade to gray at the roots. Her skin was creased the the laughter lines of somebody who like to smile, but not with the wrinkles which came with age.

"Well isn't that lovely of our Tulip, sending gentlemen callers to her dear old mother. Such a pretty girl should be keeping them all to herself. Don't just stand there," she said, tutting in mock disapproval. "Come in, come in!"

She dusted her hands on the least frilly part of her apron, cleaning off just part of the flour which clung to them, and grabbed hold of Harry's arm. The flour felt as coarse and gritty against his bare skin as if she was wearing sandpaper gloves.

All of the furniture was lovingly made from wood and gleamed with fresh polish. Harry couldn't see a spot of dust on any surface, but there were scuffs and spots of wear on all the furniture, showing heavy signs of use despite their cleanliness.

There was a single pair of shoes tucked underneath the cabinet at the door, and a single black umbrella leaning beside it.

"I confess, Mrs Guinevere" said Harry slowly, allowing her to lead him to a seat at the kitchen table. "You're not at all what I was expecting."

The kitchen was open and brightly lit. The table was a square large enough to seat three on every side, and partially covered by a pristine white cloth. Incandescent bulbs sat in sconces on every wall, lighting the room brighter than Knockturn Alley had been even in the middle of the day.

"Was that girl of mine telling stories again?" She laughed loudly, her voice both clear and delighted.

"Not at all," said Harry. "I may have made a few assumptions on my own."

"Now, then. Let's us clear some of them up for you, shall we?" She put her hands on her hips, giving Harry a stern look. "I'm to be called Gwen, not Mrs Guinevere."

Harry smiled, and nodded in agreement.

"And my name is Harry, if your daughter didn't mention that as well." He paused, and held up the paper bag which he'd been carrying around. "I know a guest is supposed to bring wine," he said apologetically. "But I brought tea from my garden instead."

Gwen snatched it quickly out of his hand.

"Oh how lovely!" she cried. "I always have the kettle ready for a good cup, don't you know. Here, take one of my biscuits," she said, shoving a large copper bowl across the table to him. It looked to have been a fruit bowl, once, repurposed to a gigantic heap of treats. "You have as many of these as you like, love, and I'll take care of the tea."

Harry picked a biscuit from the top of the pile. It was wide and fat, nearly the size of an open hand and as thick as the meat of his thumb. He turned it over, inspecting both sides. The dark shapes of chocolate drops could just about be seen hidden under the surface.

The kettle must have been boiled recently, because it was only a moment later that Gwen set down a steaming mug in front of him. She cupped hers in both hands, and lifted it level with her chin, breathing deeply.

"Go on, then," she urged. "Try a biscuit."

"Alright," agreed Harry. "I will so long as you try my tea."

She nodded her head in agreement and made a soft noise of amusement, holding the cup to her lips.

Harry took a bite. The outside was crunchy almost to the point of being hard, but on the inside his teeth closed on something softer which swelled and burst when he put pressure on it, sending a spurt of tangy liquid into his mouth. He swallowed, and licked the crumbs from his lips.

"Is this oatmeal and raisin?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He leaned forward and whispered. "That's actually my favourite."

Gwen placed her mug back down on the table, its contents untouched.

Something wriggled between Harry's fingertips. He looked down out of reflex.

It was not a biscuit.

Seven legs waved furiously in the air around a fat, hairy body. The spider squirmed in an attempt to free itself, but could get no purchase in the air to move out of Harry's suddenly tightening grip. He let it go, and as soon as it struck the ground it scuttled away, unhindered by its missing leg or even the bite taken out of its abdomen.

The bowl writhed with a dozen more, each the size of a human fist, and as he gazed at it Harry saw that none of the sconces on the walls were lit; the spiders were illuminated only by a sputtering candle in the centre of the table.

"Do you think you can trick a hag with poison?" hissed Gwen. Her face was unchanged in shape, but her expression had taken on a sallow cast, pulling the lines of her face into a cruel mockery of a smile.

She stood up, and took three steps to the kitchen counter where a block of knives lay. Her fingers danced across the handles, and she chanted aloud in a sing-song voice.

"Eenie, meenie, miney, and…" she reached up, away from the kitchen knives to where a tarnished meat cleaver hung from a hook. "..and mo," she finished, crooning at the knife as if she was cradling a child.

"I could smell that vile concoction before a drop passed my lips, wizard," she said, taking eager steps towards him.

Harry cleared his throat when she was just a pace away.

"Well," he said. "I'm not a wizard."

Gwen snorted in derision, and motioned to lift the cleaver above her head. She let out another laugh, this time shrill and painful to hear, but then flinched suddenly. She coughed. Even wrapped around the handle of the cleaver, her fingers began to shake uncontrollably.

It struck the tiles with a deafening clang.

"And," continued Harry. "This poison is supposed to be inhaled."

The hag screamed as Harry tugged on the loose loop of cord he had draped around her neck, and then she stumbled forwards.

"I'll eat your eyes!" she shrieked. "The eyes of your children, and your children's children for a hundred generations!" She screamed again, even louder. A cat sitting atop a wall on the other end of the street vanished through an open window.

Although it was growing very late, there were still a few people walking past on the street outside. None of them looked at what was happening here, just outside Gwen's home. A few signs of the struggle left a trail behind them; the door scuffed and jammed ajar with her umbrella, and one of her begonias lay on its side in the remnants of a smashed pot.

Harry yanked on the cord. The hag fell to the ground, landing heavily on her knees.

She wailed pitifully, clawing at the cord. Although it was only a few strands of thread loosely woven together, it would not break. Gwen's wails continued for a little time, and then she lunged forwards to clutch at the coat of another woman as she passed by.

The other woman absently stepped to one side, not even turning her head to acknowledge Gwen, and walked on without breaking her stride.

"They can't see you," said Harry. "Get up. We're not going far, but I'd rather not drag you all the way."

"Your children's eyes!" said Gwen with another wail, but she stood up nonetheless.

Only a few minutes of walking later, and they were in a park sparsely filled with trees. An asphalt path cut a winding ribbon across the centre of the park. The path was the only lit part of this park.

Harry stepped off the path, Gwen following wordlessly in his footsteps. His lips moved slightly as he counted the trees he passed.

"Here we are," he said quietly to himself. "Twelve trees in, ten paces across." He turned his head, casting about in the shadows until he spotted three trees standing close together. One of the trees had branches hanging low with growths of mistletoe. "And here we are, at the junction of oak, and elm, and mistletoe." As he said the name of each tree, he touched its trunk.

He sat down on the ground, motioning for Gwen to do the same, and took out a drawstring bag.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked. "I bought it from your daughter. Bloatwort mushrooms."

Harry upended the bag, tipping out a fine black powder onto his palm.

"I don't object to her pretending a real hag picked them to add some silver to the price. None of the shopkeepers in Knockturn have ever told a customer the whole truth." He placed his hand, palm down, onto the earth in front of him, pressing the black dust into the ground. "But I needed real hagbloat."

Harry leaned forwards and blew gently on the mushroom spores he'd collected earlier from the useless bloatwort caps. They swelled up in uneven lumps, a blue-green discolouration spreading across the surface as the mushrooms grew. Within seconds, there was a patch of a dozen mushrooms lying in the crook of the tree roots, each one bigger than Harry's closed fist.

"I don't know if you've realised which poison I used yet," Harry said, his mouth twisting upwards into something which wasn't quite a smile. "I'll give you a hint. The key ingredient for the antidote is growing right in front of you."

He stood suddenly, and shoved Gwen forwards with the sole of his foot pressed onto her back.

"Go on," he said. "Pick up your cure."

The next day Harry found himself in one of England's quintessentially grim market towns, in a store as devoid of personality as the shoppers within. Fluorescent tubes sputtered over a display stand of pot pourri which stretched from the Back to School racks of blazers to the shelves of panini presses. Shoppers carried baskets around the store with one hand with their children in the other.

One particularly snotty child was wiping a bogey onto a stack of neatly folded tablecloths. When nobody was looking, Harry gave him a kick.

The store was crowded enough that nobody even turned to look at the child's sudden yelp, and Harry slipped further into the aisles of kitchenware.

Right at the back of the store, a section of wall opened into a nook the size of a cupboard. It had been partitioned off by a small length of red rope, and a brass plaque was fixed to the wall beside it. On the other side of the rope lay a crumbling well made of old stone, covered in a canopy of red tiles. Only a few were missing, but almost all were scuffed and chipped.

_The Humberton Wishing Well - 1467_

_Found on this site during a planned expansion of Dalton & Francis Ltd, this wishing well is thought to date back to when the Dalton Department Store was still a functioning mill. To preserve the architectural heritage of our family-run business, we've decided to keep this little piece of history open for everyone to see!_

_Please don't throw anything in the well!_

Harry glanced over the plate, fighting off a laugh as he read the last line. He unhooked the rope and squeezed into the nook beside the well.

He reached up his sleeve, fingers scrabbling for purchase until he found a knot, and then began to unwind a long, thin piece of homemade cord; the same one he'd used to bind the hag Gwen only a day before. Around his neck he had a similar looking cord, but this one was much smaller - just the length of a single loop around his neck. A weathered rock hung against his breastbone from this crude necklace, the cord passing through a hole in its centre.

In a series of short, deft motions Harry fastened the two cords together until the rock was secured to the end of the longer piece, and gave it a few experimental swings in the air. He paused when he felt it move slightly, and re-tied the knots.

Once the rock was held fast in place, he leaned forwards over the open mouth of the well and dropped it down.

A faint metallic clink echoed back up the shaft.

"Hey!"

Harry looked out into the aisles. A staff member in a red polo shirt was walking up to him; a young woman with a nose stud and dark bags under her eyes. He yanked on the cord hard, pulling it hand over hand to bring it up faster.

"You can't be back there. What are you -" she paused as she came closer, taking in the scene in front of her. She snorted with a burst of repressed laughter. "Are you fishing?" she asked, voice high with incredulity.

With one final tug, Harry pulled his rock back up, catching it one-handed. Mottled coins, tarnished green and black, adhered to its surface. He plucked two off, and swept the rest back into the well with a brush of his fingers.

One of the coins disappeared into Harry's pocket. He flicked the other towards the girl, and she snatched it out of the air.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked.

"I'm grateful that you're such a cheap bribe," said Harry dryly, picking crumbs of tortilla chips off the surface of the table and flicking them back onto the plate.

"Oh please," said Natalie. "I wouldn't have grassed you up anyway. I skipped lunch today, though. So, nachos."

Harry knew her name was Natalie because it was emblazoned on a name tag pinned to the ugly cardigan which made up half of the store's uniform, together with a red polo shirt. She had tossed it on the table as soon as they had taken their seats.. It had a faint dusting of nacho crumbs.

"You sure you don't want any?" she asked him. "You did buy them, after all." She ran a hand through her hair. Her hair had been cropped closely on one side of her head, making a prominent display of yellow appear where nacho debris caught on the shorter patch.

"No," replied Harry. "I can't say that this is the kind of food I usually make." He prodded at a lump on the plate where two squares of cheese singles had melted into one another, the seam covered by grey beef mince.

"What, are you a vegetarian or something?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Harry paused.

"Or something. I suppose I only eat meat when it's a full moon," he said.

"So," said Natalie, leaning forwards. "Are you going to tell me why you were fishing for old-timey small change in the back of the shop?"

"I needed a wish," said Harry. He took out the old coin he'd pocketed earlier, and spun it on the tabletop. It was bent out of shape, and had barely been a passable attempt at a circle beforehand, so it careened wildly on its side for a moment and then fell over. Harry frowned at it. "A shooting star would have been best. They gather up the wishes of everyone who sees them as they pass through the stratosphere and compress them tight together. You can get thousands of wishes in a rock this size of your fist."

He set the coin spinning again. This time it fell over even faster, and he grimaced once more.

"It's a right bastard finding where the rock fell, though," he said.

Natalie snorted, eyes bright with mirth. The corners of her lips tugged upwards as she struggled to keep a serious expression.

"So there's a wish in this old penny?" she asked. "Is just one wish enough?"

Harry nodded.

"It's just a token," he said. "Even the single smallest wish in the world would do. In fact," he said, pausing to squint closer at the patina of grime on the disc of metal lying on the tabletop. "This is probably the pettiest wish I've ever seen."

"Well you can't say that and not follow through," urged Natalie. "What's the wish for?

"This coin was thrown by a man who married a muggle. He wished that the Statute of Secrecy would be lifted so he could tell his wife who he really was."

Natalie blinked in confusion.

"What's the Statute of Secrecy?" she asked.

"It's a law. You're going to help me break it. Magic is real."

"You still haven't shown me any magic tricks!" complained Natalie, only a couple of hours later.

They had moved to a local pub after she had finished her plate of nachos, and a number of empty pint glasses covered the tabletop. Harry drummed his fingers on the surface, regretting it only a moment later when his fingertips were caught in a smear of something unknowable and sticky.

"I told you," he said. "I'm not some two-bit charlatan with a deck of cards up my sleeve."

"Oh, I'm onto you, Potter. Do you think you're the first person to try making my clothes disappear by offering to show me the art of prestidigitation?" She snorted back a laugh, and took a long pull from her drink.

She swung her leg, tapping her knee against Harry's thigh meaningfully.

"I could be into it," she said. "But pull a coin out of a girl's ear or something, would you?."

Harry laughed, and then began to stand, gathering up some of their glasses.

"Alright," he said. "One more drink, and then we can find somewhere suitable for me to show you a piece of my magic."

Natalie slid the dregs of her pint across to him. Harry juggled the other glasses into the crook of his elbow, and managed to grasp the final glass between his thumb and forefinger. He paused for a moment, one leg still trapped between the table and the bench he'd been sitting on.

"What was it you ordered, again?" he asked.

"Doom Bar," she replied. Harry nodded, and managed to twist his leg out from the table without dropping any of the glasses.

"Isn't that auspicious?" he muttered to himself as he walked away.

Almost an hour had passed by the time they finally left the pub. Harry had suggested that they take a walk to clear their heads, and so they had strolled down towards the harbourside.

It was only early evening, but there were few other pedestrians on the street. The illuminated signs of shops and bars were just beginning to stand out prominently in the dimmer light. Over towards the waterfront, where lights were less frequent, an orange glow could be seen behind the thin curtains of several houseboats.

Natalie crossed the cobbles to the very edge of the water, held back only by a low rope half a foot from the ground, strung between metal posts which had been painted black. She stared out over the water for a long moment, with Harry close behind her.

Their conversation had tapered off, and now they were just quietly enjoying one another's company. Hesitantly, Harry reached forwards, placing a hand on her upper arm.

At the touch, Natalie spun around wearing a mischievous grin, and pulled Harry forwards into a kiss.

Her lips lingered on Harry's for a long moment. He savoured it for a short amount of time, and then placed a hand on her sternum. He could feel her heartbeat quicken under his palm. She moved a fraction away, letting out a started gasp.

"Was that your card?" she whispered, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"No."

Harry shoved her away, putting enough force behind the movement that she fell backwards over the narrow lip of the walkway. The back of her ankle caught against a low-lying metal bollard, but it wasn't enough to halt her fall.

She tumbled down towards the murky water. It rose up to meet her, a shape forming out of the water. The indistinct outline of a head appeared first, rising higher above a long body dripping with fronds of green and purple kelp. The water which made up the head coalesced into teeth like glaciers in miniature which closed around Natalie.

The creature dove, dragging her down beneath the surface. Bubbles flared from within the water for only a moment, and then an unnatural calm stilled all motion from within. The moon moved out from behind a cloud, and briefly Harry could see clear through to the silt base of the harbour.

There was nothing there.


	2. Chapter Two

_A/N: No author's note necessary_

xXxXxXxX

Harry took off his boots, and jumped down into the water. It came up to his waist; a freezing belt knocking the wind out of him like a physical blow to the gut. Sharp stones and broken twigs bit into the undersides of his feet. He flexed his toes, and took a deep breath.

And ducked his head beneath the surface.

And stood up in the middle of a lake. No, not a lake, Harry realised as he took in his surroundings. This was a loch; he had followed the creature clear through the water to Scotland.

The loch was ringed around by shallow, sweeping hills bedecked in purple gorse. The stars shone bright without the pollution of city lights to block them out, and there were almost no signs of human habitation; a rotting wooden jetty nearby, and then a small stone cottage some miles distant.

Silence was the wrong word, for all that the sounds of traffic and people were gone. Rather, the subtler sounds of the night breeze combing through grass and water folding over itself had taken on a richer tone.

Harry breathed deeply, savouring the night air. The earthy tang of peat was everywhere. A low mist curled in the air just above the surface of the loch. Some distance away, there was a splash.

Teeth were the first thing to form, icicles coalescing out of the mist. Weeds were drawn up from the lakebed next, the droplets of water cascading off them forming into the rough outline of an oversized horse's body.

The beast stood fully-formed in front of Harry within seconds, less than a dozen metres away. It had a kelp mane over blue-green hide, and rough-wrought iron hooks were fixed into its flesh in many places. The old wounds around the hooks had scabbed over for the most part, but dark blue ichor dribbled out of the one in its neck.

"Water horse," called out Harry. "I would know your name."

He held the old coin up, held between two fingers. Despite the grime on its surface, it gleamed in the moonlight.

The beast snorted, a jet of cold air rushing across the loch at its exhalation. It had no warmth in either its breath or body. Crystals of frost were beginning to form on the fronds of seaweed which made up its mane.

Harry flicked the coin high into the air. The creature leapt forward, a flash of teeth snatching the prize.

It landed heavily back in the water, sending a freezing wave strong enough to almost knock Harry off his feet. It strode forwards until its head was almost touching his.

"Faithless blood, broken wish, and I sense about you the promise of death to come," it intoned. "You know the proper forms, Finder. I am the water horse. I am the elder aughiskey. I am Each-Uisge. Behold."

xXxXxXxX

Each-Uisge snorted heavily, and clouds of frost curdled in the air between it and Harry. Harry held up a hand, palm outwards in a gesture of peace, and then bowed to the creature.

It stared at him in silent for an unbearably long time.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, knowing that haste would do him no favours.

The ancient aughiskey pawed at the ground, shaking its mane of bulrushes, and, at long last spoke up.

"The magic of your kind is known to me, Finder," it declared. As it spoke, it stared intensely at Harry. Its eyes were distinctly inhuman, but also unlike any horse he had ever seen. They had sharp multi-faceted edges marked with hard flat planes, resembling the eyes of an insect carved out of grey crystal. "I have watched the Roman wizards as they took their place as rulers of these lands. The practices of your forebears were all but gone. And then you came. Wandless. Bloody. Hopeful. Wherefore have you sought me?"

"I seek a pact," said Harry. "The dead wands of a Roman wizard are not for me; I am a druid of the ancient path, and my magic will come through the bones of the hills."

"My price is beyond you, manling. You clutch at the trappings of your ancestors, unknowing. You have no smallfolk to perform the rites. No harvest to bless. No children to teach. No warriors to strengthen. A druid is many things, boy. He is among the leaders of his people. A teacher, healer, priest. He is never alone." The aughiskey loomed closer, a cruel leer stretching across its equine features. "Who are you, with no soul but his own?"

"If you join me," began Harry in measured tones. "We would be two."

"Faugh," growled the beast. "My power leaks freely from these damned wounds, lost to the sea with every move I make. There is little enough left. Scant left to spare, lest I spend my days cowering beneath the waves while you squander my gifts. No. Drown you, no. I will walk free atop the surf until the day of my death."

Harry cocked his head, and inspected the hooks hanging from the horse-like creature's flesh. He reached out to examine one, and pulled his hand back quickly when Each-Uisge snapped its teeth at him.

The cuts looked positively ancient, and a creature of such power as this would not have any trouble healing simple barbs in its flesh. Harry was certain that this must come from something deeper - a curse, perhaps, or some other taint in the iron.

"What if your wounds were no longer a problem?"

Each-Uisge stilled, suddenly, and the breeze around them whipped into a fury as it considered Harry's words.

"End this torment, and I will have power enough to spare," it said. "Tear down the house of my foe. The craft of his iron will end when the last of his line's blood is spilled upon the shore."

xXxXxXxX

The nearby village had since been subsumed by Inverness as a commuter town; the only real residents remaining were a handful of country folk who had passed the homes down in their families for generations. The other half of the houses left were inhabited by professionals for a year or two before they surrendered to the pressure to move closer to the city and the trappings of civilisation which came with it.

Harry had tried to begin his search for the elder aughiskey's enemy in the local legends, but none of the village's inhabitants seemed to have either the inclination or the ability to help, so he moved further afield.

It took days of searching through libraries and museums, but eventually Harry came across a promising lead.

In the very centre of Inverness, a low terrace of houses shone brightly; the white paint on chalk cob walls reflected the sun in full force. Timber frames had been added to the exterior of one particular section of the terrace, painted blue and decorated with a wrought iron sign in the shape of a cup and saucer.

A few trestle tables stood outside the cafe, loosely populated by tourists and tourists' bags.

Harry pushed the door open. A bell suspended above it chimed as he stepped over the threshold.

Inside the cafe, a series of rooms connected by narrow hallways formed the seating area. A narrow stairwell led to more space for customers upstairs. Thick timber beams coated liberally in black paint were spaced evenly throughout the chalk blocks which formed the walls. It looked as if several neighbouring houses had been knocked together to form the cafe.

At the front of the first room, a counter displayed handmade pastries dusted with icing sugar. Next to them, a wooden butcher's block was laden with sandwiches under upturned plastic containers. The fillings were uninspired, along the lines of ham, tuna mayo, and cheese and tomato - but they were held between thick cuts of homemade seed bread.

A blackboard on the wall listed prices and the special of the day. Harry ignored it, and stepped up to the counter.

"Excuse me," he began, attempting to get the attention of the staff. There was a bell on the countertop next to him. He eyed it surreptitiously, and then decided he would rather wait for a moment than sour the impression he made upon someone by hammering away at the bell impatiently.

"Sorry, sorry!" shouted someone from the back room in a thick highland brogue. "I won't be a minute!"

A stocky man came rushing around the corner a moment longer, a plate in each hand. He bustled past Harry to carry them upstairs. He had an apron tied on over a faded blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up - or at least, one sleeve. The other had begun to unroll, and its cuff hung free halfway to his wrist.

"Right, then," he said when he was back in front of Harry. He paused, dragging the sleeve across his forehead which was flushed as red as his cheeks. "What'll it be?"

"I was actually wondering about the name," admitted Harry.

"The Water Horse? Aye, there's a fine story behind that. My Granda wouldn't let anyone leave afore they'd heard it, so the name stuck."

"I was wondering," Harry began, only to be cut off when the man shoved a sheaf of loose-leaf paper bound by string into his hands.

"The story's written in our menu," he said, giving Harry a knowing wink. "Right at the back, there. Tell you what, read it cover to cover, and I'll come take your order in five."

xXxXxXxX

"Scottish onion soup?" said Harry quizzically.

"It's like French onion, only I crumble all these wee bits of crispy onion over the top instead of garlic bread. Served along with a hot buttered roll and a pot of tea."

Harry shrugged.

"There we are, then," he said. The waitress moved to take the menu back, but Harry held it out of her reach. "Actually, I'll keep hold of that for now. I had a few questions about the story in the back. I don't suppose -"

"Aye, I'll get Alasdair to come out to you," the waitress said. "I can't be having with him underfoot while I'm trying to cook, anyway!"

Soon enough, Alasdair, the stocky man from before, was in front of Harry's table with a bowl of soup. Harry pushed a chair out with his foot, and gestured for him to sit.

"Tell me everything you know about the hooks," demanded Harry.

Alasdair laughed uneasily, and fidgeted with his sleeve, beginning to roll it back up past his elbow.

"Alright, alright!" he said, laughing. "Eager, aren't you? Alright. My Granda used to tell the story like this: our great-great many times Granda was himself a blacksmith all those years gone. He had a bonny lass and a brawny son, and was as proud as a man can be of his family.

One day his lass was gathering flowers down by the loch when she say a beautiful horse. He caught a glimpse himself from a distance. This was a magnificent beast, all strong muscle and silky coat. There was a fae touch about it, about the way the light dappled on its coat. But it was friendly, and let her ride it aplenty, so he gave it no mind.

Until he came across the girl in the arms of a man he had never seen before - a man with wildness in his eyes and strength beyond that of any ordinary folk. The blacksmith leapt to pull them apart, but the stranger knocked him cold with one blow.

When he came to there was no sign of either of them but the girl's clothes strewn about. That stranger had been as naked as she, but there hadn't been any clothing of his on the ground. And as he searched about for any sign of them, all the smith could find was a trail of hoofprints leading into the loch.

That was when he knew what this stranger was. He was the horse. The water horse. And not just any kelpie, but the worst of them all; Each-Uisge.

So he gathered his son and set to forge mighty iron hooks, cold iron forged in the blessed waters of the nearby Fuaran Dearg. Cold iron to slay a faerie creature.

They roasted a prize sheep by the loch to lure the beast in, and as soon as it stepped on solid ground they set those hooks in its flesh to stop it from fleeing.

They trapped the beast with chains and ropes affixed to the ends of the hooks, and bound it to the earth until dawn. When the sun rose, there was nothing left but grey ash where the water horse had been."

Alasdair finished his tale and sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.

The spoon Harry was holding clanked when he dropped it back into his empty bowl. Harry tapped the menu with one finger, before unfolding the napkin set beside it and gently dabbing at his mouth.

"Almost word for word as it is in the menu," said Harry.

"Thank you!" exclaimed Alasdair. Harry bit back the comment he had been about to make; that it was not a compliment.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the hooks?" asked Harry.

"Not much to tell," the other man said, giving a brief shrug. "There's one hanging on the wall, if you'd like to take a look. Bit of a family heirloom, you know?"

He stood up, and spent an awkward moment on tiptoes to pull down a rough piece of metalwork, little more than two rods of pig iron curved and sharpened around one another.

"What about these blessed springs?" asked Harry.

"Ah, the chalybeate springs!" said Alasdair, placing the hook on the table and settling back down into the chair. "They're supposed to hold all sorts of magical gifts for anyone who bathes in them. Healing, and the like. I'd like to have seen this one, but the story doesn't say where it was."

"Chalybeate," repeated Harry, lips moving slightly as he worked through the translation. "The steel springs?"

"Iron. There's plenty of iron salts in the water. Makes the rocks around them all kinds of colourful. Red stripes and such."

Harry stood, inhaling sharply through his nose, and picking up the hook.

"This should be enough to help me find the spring," he said. "Thank you."

He picked up a salt shaker, sprinkling some onto a finger and dabbing it onto the metal. As he did so, he began to move towards the door, almost walking into chairs and tables several times because his gaze was fixed so heavily on the tangled piece of ironwork in his hands.

"Here, you can't just take that!" exclaimed Alasdair, his already pink face flushing to a deeper shade of red.

"It's this or I kill your family," said Harry. "I think I'll stick with just taking the hook. It's not as if a muggle like you could stop me, anyway."

"What's a muggle?"

"Basically cattle," replied Harry absently. The hook thrummed in his hands.

xXxXxXxX

A bicycle crashed onto the ground. The cyclist fell off just in time to prevent himself from being caught underneath it. A car struck the still-spinning wheel of the bike, and it went flying.

Metal vibrated in Harry's hands as he strode through the city, completely unaware of the indignant shouts of pedestrians he walked into, and the drivers he walked in front of. His attention was fully focused on the ancient hook he was holding. Every so often, he paused to take out the salt shaker he had pocketed in the cafe, sprinkle a few grains onto the hook, and observe the patterns they formed as they shook.

Soon he was out of the city centre, and found himself walking down a grassy path towards one of the many satellite towns which had been absorbed as the city expanded over the years. The buildings were less densely packed here, where there was still some semblance of the old boundaries between districts.

As he grew closer, the metal vibrated with more and more force until at last it leapt out of Harry's hands and buried itself into the ground. Right in the middle of a large supermarket's car park. Dozens of cars were parked around him, their muggle owners arguing over the cost of cabbage within the store or dithering outside, blocking the lanes as they packed the shopping into the boots of their cars.

"No," moaned Harry in disgust. "They didn't.  _Animals_."

He crouched down by the hook, getting onto one knee and placing his palm flat atop it. The sound of it vibrating against the tarmac was louder than the engines of any of the vehicles around him, and set his teeth on edge even before he touched it. Harry closed his eyes and focused. The sound of the hook accelerated into a shrill whine. Using his other hand, he unscrewed the cap from the salt shaker and emptied it onto the ground. He wet a finger in his mouth, and drew a symbol in the salt.

Everything went still.

Harry concentrated on the feeling of the magic he had left in the metalwork, wrapping his senses around it, and then casting it down, deeper into the ground. His mouth filled with the taste of copper. An itching, like a thousand burrowing insects, spread across his skin. A rushing noise, like wind through seashells, flooded over Harry's awareness of the world. He could feel the remnants of the spring below, bricked up and drawn away with artificial culverts but not completely gone.

Harry added another line to the symbol in the salt, curling it around into a neat serif. He reached out to the waters flowing beneath the ground, and pulled.

The spring answered.

First it came through the breeze. The wind took on the taste of salt. Birds nesting on the roof of the store took to their wings and fled, the sudden cacophony of their startled cries drowning out all other sounds.

Next, it came through the drains. Guttering shook on the buildings nearby, and leaves rose up through grates set into the street, buoyed up by the rising level of water. A puddle formed around the lips of manhole covers, seeping out through the cracks.

Something rumbled, deep beneath the ground.

Rain began to fall from a clear sky, gently at first, but building into a torrent so heavy that car alarms began to set off from the force of the impact.

Harry braced himself against the ground.

There was a resounding crack, and the earth split open. A geyser of brackish water ruptured forth, one at first, but afterwards followed by several others almost as large. There was an earthy brown colour to the water from its rich composition of minerals; Harry could smell them in salt and sulphur in the air.

The force of the geyser breaking through the ground sent Harry flying backwards. He lay spread-eagled on his back, staring at the sky and laughing.

This was how the wizards found him.

xXxXxXxX

A series of cracks sounded. Unlike the deep rumble of the earth tearing itself apart under geological forces rebelling, these were sharp staccato bursts.

With each crack, a person clad in a similar uniform of long brown robes which bore a superficial resemblance to trench-coats appeared in the car park. Aurors. Two of them struggled to find their footing upon arrival, the currents in ankle-high water were so strong.

"What - what happened here?" one of them asked her neighbour. He hushed her, holding his wand forwards. The others clustered around in a loose formation, all holding their wands at the ready.

"I don't see any Death Eaters," he said at long last. He seemed to be the leader of the group, if his hairline was anything to go by. He had strands of hair brushed unconvincingly across a bald patch the the top of his head, although it was hardly visible given how short the grey hair on the sides also was.

The senior auror straightened up, and lowered his wand. A shudder went through the group as they all relaxed at the same time, just a little. "Alright, fan out. Savage, Longbottom, , you're with me."

Harry sat up, looking at them in surprise. He hadn't expected a response so soon. He put a hand on the hook, still buried solidly into the ground, to help push himself to his feet, almost slipping in the water.

At the sight of Harry's sudden movement, the senior auror whirled around, jabbing his wand in Harry's direction threateningly.

"Drop your wand! Now!" he shouted.

Harry brushed some of the dirt off his robes. It did little good, as they were soaked through with muddy water as well, so he quickly gave it up.

"I don't think he has a wand, Williamson," said the sole woman in the group. Her hair writhed atop her scalp without warning, pulling itself back out of her eyes and binding itself into a tight ponytail without any ties or grips, just one strand wrapping around the rest in a knot.

"Look around! There's only muggles here. Nobody else could have done this," barked the older man. He turned back to Harry quickly, as if afraid that he might have fled during that brief window of distraction. "Wand! On the floor, now!"

"I don't have a wand," said Harry. He held up his hands, palms outwards. "You see?"

Williamson scowled.

"Don't lie to me. You're no muggle. Surrender your wand or we'll take it from your pockets after we stun you."

Harry reached into his pocket, and the aurors tensed.

He pulled out a small flask.

Williamson let out a snarl of anger, and flicked his wand at Harry. A burst of red light struck him in the chest.

Harry looked down at it, his expression blank. At the impact site, red sparks danced for a moment, like a burst of visible static electricity, yet without penetrating his skin. He took a step backwards, and it followed him, adhering to his body even as sparks shot off it.

Just as before when brushing dust away, Harry reached up to brush away at the sparks. Instead of falling away, however, they stuck to his hand. He shook it, but the sparks had taken on the viscosity of congealing jelly. Harry frowned at the sight, and closed his fist. The red light was still visible from between his fingers.

He turned and began to walk away. One of the aurors shot another spell at him, but this one went wide, flying well over his right shoulder.

In front of him, the other two aurors were sprinting back from their task to secure the area. The older of the two was having some trouble, but it wasn't long before the younger auror was standing in front of Harry as if to block his way.

Harry gave him a wide, friendly smile

"Hi!" he said, holding out his hand for the other man to shake. "I'm Harry Potter. How are you doing?"

"Neville - Neville Longbottom," replied the auror, sounding rather confused. He grasped Harry's hand to shake automatically. The stunning spell activated as soon as it leapt to Neville's hand through Harry's fingers, and he collapsed in a boneless heap.

Harry bent down to adjust Neville slightly, making sure that his mouth and nose weren't beneath the water by propping his head up on the raised stone boundary of a planter nearby.

The other aurors rushed forwards, launching spells at the space where Harry had been a moment ago. Harry grinned, and made his way towards one of the large cracks in the ground while they were distracted by tending to Neville.

As he reached the edge, he saw Tonks mouthing the words of a spell, her wand pointed directly at him. He raised a hand to wave, and then leapt down into the hole.

The geysers were still flowing strongly, but they were redirecting the spring waters away from the channels they had formerly followed. Harry landed in a low tunnel lined with concrete slabs, many of which were now fractured or pushed out of alignment.

Every wall of the tunnel was damp, and Harry's feet squished on the mulch of rotting vegetation with every step he took. He grimaced, but made his way deeper, towards the heart of the spring.

Soon enough, the culvert opened up into a more natural looking cavern, albeit one dotted in ugly pipes and waste materials from the building works. There was a sheet of corrugated iron, heavy with rust and serving seemingly no purpose, along with metres and metres of blue rope and plastic fencing.

Behind the muggle debris, however, there were sheer walls of rock, striped in bands of red and gold and silver. Sunlight was streaming into the cavern from where the water had torn a route through to the open air, and this light was glinting off crystals embedded in the rock.

The centre of the cavern was dominated by a pool. Although Harry could hear the geysers still roaring overhead, and the salty spray was misting the air enough that he often had to blink it out of his eyes in order to see, the surface of this pool, the heart of the spring, was completely still.

Harry could see clear through to the red rock at the bottom, colour undiminished by several metres of water. The rocks folded over one another in such a manner that Harry was unable to spot any tunnels moving in or out of the pool, save for a thin stream of bubbles in one corner.

The image was spoiled by a traffic cone bobbing in the water.

Taking care not to slip on rocks which had been smoothed by centuries of erosion, Harry carefully made his way down to the pool. A fine layer of some kind of moss was growing on one side of the pool, hidden from view. Harry's foot came into contact with it, and he almost fell.

He paused, leaning against the dank wall, and tried to plot out a route down. There was still a drop of at least two metres before the surface, but he could see no safe passage.

Harry studied it for as long as he dared, but soon enough the shouts of the aurors began echoing down the tunnels. They had followed him through to the spring.

At a glance behind himself, Harry could see them coming through the culvert into the mouth of the cavern.

He pushed himself off the rocks, and jumped into the water.

The cold almost knocked the breath out of him, and Harry struggled to right himself without swallowing any of the water. He flailed, unsure which way was up, and then grasped hold of the cone by its base. It was all the support he needed to pull his head above water and make his way towards the water's edge.

Harry climbed out slowly, pulling on some of the moss to aid his grip. Eventually he was sitting on the side of the pool, his legs dangling in the water.

Once he had caught his breath, he unstoppered his flask, and filled it from the pool. He sat back as soon as it was full, letting out a sigh.

He let out a peal of laughter, looking up at the aurors struggling to reach him.

"Is it too late to surrender?"


	3. Chapter Three

The Ministry of Magic was a grim edifice when not populated with the heavy press of people which filled it during working hours. Less than ten other people were in the vast atrium chamber. The silence would have been eerie if not for the steady splash of water from the many fountain spouts.  
  
"Why all the black stone?" asked Harry. "Was there not enough in the budget to get any trees?"  
  
"Move it," snapped Williamson, jabbing Harry in the back with the tip of his wand.  
  
Harry walked forwards, if only to keep himself from being poked with a sharp object again.  
  
"A window, even," muttered Harry. To his side was a particularly gaudy fountain adorned with golden statues. A sign at the base labelled it as the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Harry slipped one of his hands into the water, trailing his fingers through it as he passed.  
  
"Damn it, Longbottom, I told you to bind his hands!" cried Williamson. He stopped, grabbing Harry roughly by the shoulder to bring him to a halt as well.  
  
"Sir?" asked Neville, moving from his place at the front of the little procession to get a closer look. "I did." He frowned, looking at Harry's hands.  
  
Harry waved, spattering droplets of water everywhere from the hand which had been in the fountain. Some distance away, a length of slender rope lay on the atrium floor.  
  
"And here I was hoping your grandmother was exaggerating when she told me you were a useless squib," said Williamson. He shoved Harry roughly forwards, knocking him into Neville. Neville's wand clattered to the floor. "Do it again. Or do I need to send you back to Hogwarts for your Transfiguration NEWT?"  
  
Williamson stalked away, inaudible mutters trailing behind him.  
  
"Sorry Nev," said Tonks, pulling him to his feet. "I need to go for a team of Obliviators. Can you sign Potter in?" She rushed after Williamson without waiting for a response.  
  
Harry bent down, plucking Neville's wand up from the floor.  
  
A sudden tightness crossed Neville's face.  
  
Harry held it out for him.  
  
"I'm actually rather excellent at Transfiguration," said Neville, smiling at Harry. "Everyone learns how to cast the Incarcerous spell by rote," he added, taking back his wand and tapping it on the side of Harry's arm. Ropes burst from the tip, wrapping several times around Harry's wrists to pull them together - and then stopping short of fastening into a knot.  
  
Harry moved his wrists a little closer together to prevent the ropes from moving. He studied the ropes which had been flawlessly conjured.  
  
"There's no need to truss you up. Nobody was hurt, you don't have a wand, and you're not going anywhere, right? Still, don't make a fuss."  
  
"But," said Harry. "Rebuilding the spell on the fly to omit one of its key steps? That's far more impressive."  
  
"Right?" said Neville, placing a hand on Harry's upper arm and motioning gently for him to come along, and then striding forwards himself. "You have no idea how impressed McGonagall was when she saw me do it. And that was just with the Vermillious charm!"  
  
"I don't know that spell," admitted Harry.  
  
Neville looked askance at Harry, turning his head to look more fully at him, although he did not break his stride.  
  
"That's one of the first spells any wizard learns," said Neville. "Periculum for first years?"  
  
"I don't know who McGonagall is, either," said Harry.  
  
"Professor McGonagall?" Neville furrowed his brow in confusion, and then his face lit up in understanding. "Oh, I thought it was odd I didn't recognise you. You didn't go to Hogwarts, did you?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
Neville made a soft noise of understanding, and snapped his fingers.  
  
"That explains it, then. Where did you go to school? I have a friend who went to Durmstrang. You don't seem to have the accent, but then, you don't sound French to me either. Sounds like you're from around here, if I'm honest with you."  
  
Harry laughed.  
  
"Yeah, you're right there. I am from around here. I was - I guess you could say I was homeschooled. With a bit of on-the-job training." Harry paused, searching for the right words. "I was apprenticed, you could say."  
  
The only sounds for a good while were footsteps. Neville shook his head, a sad expression coming across his face.  
  
"That's a bit quaint," he said at last. "Gran wanted to apprentice me as well, but Uncle Algie put his foot down." He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but was interrupted by the rapid approach of the desk they had been walking towards all this time. "Ah! Here we are," he said to the portly wizard manning the desk station.  
  
"Longbottom," said the other wizard in greeting, raising a piece of rigid golden wire and scanning it across both of the newcomers.  
  
"I've got Harry Potter here to check in" said Neville. The other wizard grunted and made a note on a sheet of parchment. "Who's got space in their diary?"  
  
"Williamson."  
  
"I - no. Best not," said Neville, giving Harry a look of mild amusement.  
  
"Thicknesse."  
  
"Galloping Gargoyles, man, have a heart!"  
  
"Granger."  
  
"She doesn't even work for this department!" exclaimed Neville. He sighed, and patted Harry on the back. "Don't worry," he said. "Granger's good at doing other people's jobs. She'll take care of you."  
  
The portly wizard cleared his throat, and shoved a metal tray across the desk towards them.  
  
"Wand."  
  
"That's going to be a problem," said Harry.  
  


-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  
As interrogation rooms went, it was spacious and well-furnished. The desk in the centre was a sturdy piece of solid mahogany, made from the same material as the floor. Upon closer inspection it all appeared to be a single moulded piece, all transfigured into part of the same object to prevent it from being jostled by unruly criminals.  
  
The witch named Granger sat on one side of the table, shuffling through sheets of parchment. A muggle-style paperclip fixed them together, and she had both a quill pen in her hair and a few lines of ink on her cheekbone where she seemed to have missed more than once while attempting to tuck it behind her ear.  
  
Without looking up from her files, she rapped her wand on the surface of the desk and the ropes wrapped around Harry's wrists vanished.  
  
"A flagrant breach of the Statute of Secrecy, destruction of muggle property, resisting arrest, and - well." She coughed, and turned over the parchment. "Much the same again, under any one of a number of different pieces of legislation. Frankly, Mr. Potter, I'm spoilt for choice as to which law I could cite if the Ministry elects to prosecute you."  
  
"I like to keep my options open," said Harry, resting his hands on the table.  
  
"And then we have this," added the witch, taking out Harry's flask, which had been confiscated during his arrest. She placed it on the table, just far enough away that Harry was unable to reach it without standing. "What's in the flask?"  
  
"I'll be honest," said Harry. "It's mostly water."  
  
Granger frowned, and for the first time put all of the parchment down.  
  
"Mr. Potter, a great many substances are mostly water."  
  
Harry gave a lazy shrug. The witch met his gaze for several seconds, and then sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her forefinger.  
  
"Very well, then," she said. "We can start somewhere else. The Ministry records for you are somewhat sparse. This gives me some latitude in how to address your situation, as you have no prior criminal record. Or, in truth, any of significance beyond a birth certificate. I can see here, as a British wizard, you were registered to attend Hogwarts. Following the -" her voice broke up for a moment, and then she gathered herself, shuffling the parchment rather vigorously to cover it up. "Following the deaths of your parents, your Hogwarts letters were sent to the care of the Dursley family in Privet Drive. The situation escalated when no response was heard, and a team of Obliviators were issued."  
  
Harry choked back a laugh.  
  
"What happened?" he asked.  
  
"Owls, Mr. Potter. An abundance of owls." She checked a note on the file. "Fourteen-hundred and eight owls. The cost of excising fecal matter alone from the street cost in excess of two hundred galleons."  
  
Harry winced at the image.  
  
"Did they not get the hint? I wasn't even with the Dursleys by the time I was old enough to start Hogwarts."  
  
"I'm afraid many magical schools still hold onto the old rivalries and ward against even post from other educational institutions," said Granger. "Where did you go to school?"  
  
"D'you know, Neville asked me that as well," said Harry.  
  
The witch sitting opposite him gave a thin smile.  
  
"Yes, he would have done," she agreed.  
  
There was an odd note in her voice, so Harry looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate.  
  
"Gathering intelligence about an enemy combatant's training is basic auror procedure, Mr. Potter. I do beg your pardon if you thought he was simply being friendly."  
  
Harry bit back a retort, and sat there in silence. He had found the auror to be genuinely enjoyable company during their brief conversation, and one of the first people his own age that he'd interacted with in what seemed like forever. He felt a pang in his gut as he looked back over the conversation, and wondered just how many of those pleasantries had been fake smiles to get him to lower his guard and talk.  
  
"Where did you go to school?" asked Granger, gesturing at the forms lying in front of her to remind him of why she was asking.  
  
"I didn't," Harry said, rather shortly.  
  
The Ministry witch sat upright suddenly.  
  
"You mean you didn't go to Hogwarts?" she prompted.  
  
"No," replied Harry. "I haven't been to school since I was seven."  
  
Granger stared at him in shock. Her eyes opened wide, and she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. After a moment, her lips parted and eyebrows lifted.  
  
"Oh!" she said quietly, to herself. "So that's why! I mean, no wonder. If you've never had an education some accidental magic was bound to happen sooner or later. Oh, I wonder if he even knows that he's a wizard!"  
  
"I'm not a wizard," said Harry, watching her ramble off on a runaway train of thought with no small amount of amusement, along with a fair measure of incredulity at how rapidly her demeanour had changed.  
  
"Maybe not yet," she said, beginning to speak faster. "But with that incident today you must have so much potential. It's a bit unorthodox, but we'll find you a teacher, and once your hearing is over we can get you a wand, and -"  
  
"I don't want a wand," said Harry, loud enough to interrupt her. She narrowed her eyes.  
  
"You're getting a wand."  
  


x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

  
Hours flew by in a blur of paperwork. Forms were filled and signed, and eventually he was released with a punishment worse than Azkaban.  
  
"Community service," said Granger at long last.  
  
Harry groaned, and buried his head in his hands.  
  
"I'll take the Dementors," he whined, not making eye contact.  
  
"I am remanding you into the custody of Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a period of no less than eight week, to offer such services as you are able at the discretion of the Headmaster."  
  
"This is a cruel and unusual punishment," said Harry. "I demand to be thrown in Azkaban."  
  
The witch smiled, and reached up to her hair. She pulled out the narrow strip of fabric which was holding it back, and curls of chestnut hair bounced free, hanging loosely down to her shoulders. She moved her neck from side to side, letting out a quiet noise of contentment as it cracked.  
  
"Oh, it's not so bad. The school is empty for the summer, so you'll have a whole castle almost to yourself. There's plenty of fresh air, and the grounds are gorgeous."  
  
Harry sighed, and pushed himself up from the desk. His cheek was sore where it had been pressing into the ornate metal fastenings on his sleeve, and he could feel his hair was disheveled. He reached up to comb his fingers through it and pat it down, bringing it back into some semblance of order.  
  
"Is this all an elaborate trick to get me to go to school?" he asked.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore will be happy to discuss that with you at a later date," said Granger, a quirk at the edge of her mouth betraying her attempt to maintain a straight face. "For the most part, I believe he needed an extra pair of hands to assist with errands within the castle and maintenance of the grounds. It's as good an entry point to the Wizarding World as any for you, Mr. Potter. And besides, it's not so unusual a punishment as you might think."  
  
"It's not?" asked Harry doubtfully.  
  
Granger shook her head.  
  
"Why, the position you'll be filling was previously occupied by someone in your situation. He got in a little trouble for assaulting muggles while he was younger, and was successfully rehabilitated to have a long and illustrious career at Hogwarts."  
  
Granger stood, continuing to stretch, and stifling a yawn. She looked down at Harry with a wicked gleam in her eyes.  
  
"His name was Argus Filch."  
  
She paused meaningfully. Harry stared at her.  
  
"You remember I have no idea who that is, right?" he asked. "I have no context for what I'm sure was a very clever reference."  
  
"As long as you appreciate that I was clever, we don't need to worry about the fine details. Now, do come along." She flicked her wand at the flask on the desk, sending it floating up within Harry's reach. He snatched it out of the air, opening it briefly to take a sniff.  
  
The liquid inside smelt faintly of eggs, and faintly of the sea, but as the aroma entered Harry's nostrils, his other senses flared, broadening the scent into deeper sensations. Harry felt the warmth of sunlight on a flower bud as the petals curled out, unfolding with new growth, and he heard the sharp ring of iron being hammered. His knuckles tingled as the sympathetic image of sparks from the struck metal danced over his hands.  
  
He exhaled.  
  
The magical senses retreated to the back of his mind, and then Harry was sighing in relief at having found the contents unspoiled.  
  
"This Hogwarts everyone keeps going on about," began Harry. "Does it have a stream or a river nearby? Even a duck pond would do."  
  
Granger looked at him sideways, not saying anything. She pursed her lips, continuing to stare at him. Harry shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under her gaze.  
  
"Well I could drag a bathtub outside if I had to, but that seems like poor manners," he said."I'm sure you will find the duck pond in the grounds to your satisfaction, Mr Potter. Now, do come along," she repeated. "Or you would prefer to take the train?"  
  


x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

  
A short walk through the winding corridors of the Ministry led them to a small foyer by the atrium. Ceiling-high fireplaces ringed the walls. Instead of mantelpieces, there were blocky end tables made from the same onyx bricks as the walls between the fireplaces. Each of them held a small pot.  
  
Only one of the fireplaces was lit, and even that one barely so. A few embers clung to life behind an iron grate. Granger pushed at the dying logs with a poker which had hung beside the end table, and then picked up the pot, handing it over to Harry.  
  
Harry upended the pot, pouring out a measure of a fine green powder into his hands. The light caught it at peculiar angles, reflecting and refracting through crystals within the powder to make it glitter as if lit from within.  
  
He moved his palm this way and that, tilting the mound of glittering powder to get a better look at it. The texture was smoother than sand or salt.  
  
"This is delightful," murmured Harry, entranced by the powder he was holding. He swirled the tip of a finger through it, and then licked a finger to dab some of the powder onto his tongue.  
  
"That's not supposed to be ingested!" exclaimed Granger, snatching the pot back from him. "This is Floo Powder."  
  
"This is a ground and desiccated sap-vein," said Harry. He ran his tongue over his teeth, savouring the taste of the powder. "Smoke-fired cuttings from some kind of creeper. Maybe - maybe clematis, or honeysuckle." He closed his eyes. "Don't tell me - some kind of sympathetic magic? Cut-vine to living vine. Dried and ground and mixed for dispersal. Fire is present throughout the whole process, of course, but not destroying, not burning. Changing." His eyes shot open.  
  
"Some kind of fire portal?" he asked, his voice raised with a touch of incredulity.  
  
Granger cocked her head to one side.  
  
"Why, yes," she said. "You said you've never heard of Floo Powder before. What did you just do?"  
  
"I know plants," said Harry dismissively. "All magic has a pattern to it. It's there for anyone to see if they know how to look. But - " he hesitated. "This isn't anything like what I was expecting from wand-wizard magic."  
  
The witch put a hand on her hip, a slightly smug expression coming onto her face.  
  
"Whatever rudimentary understanding of Herbology you may have gathered, Mr Potter, there have been a thousand years of witches and wizards passing through Hogwarts. I assure you, we have discovered a great many things in that time."  
  
Harry placed his palms together, turning them over and over, letting the powder slip through his fingers and fall into the other hand.  
  
"Show me a few more things like this, and we may not be wasting our time here," he said, and then paused, looking thoughtful. "Wait a second - you said that this isn't supposed to be ingested?"  
  
Granger nodded, taking a pinch out of the pot she had snatched back earlier.  
  
"Take a pinch, like so. Stand well back, and toss it into the fire."  
  
She threw the powder past the grate, and as soon as it touched the meagre flame it roared into brilliant emerald tongues, flaring almost to the height of a man.  
  
"Step into the flames, and speak the name of your destination. Enunciate, or you might end up off-course," she said. By the time she had finished speaking, the flames had begun to dwindle, changing shades back to a more muted orange. "Now, you try. Throw, step, and then say Hogwarts. Got it?"  
  
Harry grinned.  
  
"Oh no. You're missing a trick here." He smoothed the powder onto the back of one of his hands, and used his fingers to ease it out into a rough line. "Really I should be shaping this into a rune first, but that's so much more effort, and basically just for show."  
  
He lifted his hand up until it was level with his face, leaned forwards a little and inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing in the powder. A shock ran through his body, as if he'd been struck by lightning. Harry felt a tingling deep within the bones of his fingers, and a rising sensation from deep in his stomach which travelled up to the base of his throat.  
  
Granger squawked in surprise, and made to grab Harry's hand, but was too late. He pulled his hand away from his face and grinned at her, wrinkling his nose and shaking the excess powder off.  
  
He stepped forwards, reaching down to grasp the fire as if picking a rock up from the ground. As it came into contact with his skin, the colour shifted back to the same emerald shade it had taken on when the Floo Powder had been thrown in a moment ago. It was cool to the touch, and surprisingly solid. It tickled his skin where he held it. The was only the barest hint of surface tension, but Harry attempted to close his fist and found himself unable to do more than curl his fingers - the fire strongly resisted any compression. He picked up a second handful of fire, and stepped back, turning to face Granger who was watching the spectacle in shocked silence.  
  
Harry stretched out his arms, moving his shoulders to loosen then and taking several small steps on the stop. He shook his arms, and then stilled, arms still held apart. He winked at Granger.  
  
"Hogwarts," he said, and clapped his hands, bringing the two orbs of swirling green fire together. They ignited upon contact, exploding outwards in a dome which engulfed both witch and wizard, and the world fell away in a storm of green flames.  
  
  


x-x-x-x-x-x-x

  
  
Harry leaned back to relax, and a shiver of anticipation ran from the base of his spine. His toes curled and uncurled, and for a moment he thought that he wasn't wearing shoes anymore; when he looked down to check there was nothing beneath his feet.  
  
The flagstones of the Ministry had been replaced with a roiling sea of green fire which rose and bit at his heels, thrashing like serpents striking for the kill, yet somehow always reaching just short of coming into contact with him or the witch he'd dragged alongside him into this emerald inferno.  
  
At a glance, she seemed to be horrified, but the frantic expression on her face unfolded from fear into one of utter fascination. She peered this way and that, trying to look deeper into their surroundings, yet no matter how far she reached, she never came any closer to the fire - the bubble of still, cool air around them remained equidistant.  
  
A heavy pressure filled the air. It stilled and hardened, as if the oxygen had turned into solid crystal. Harry inhaled deeply through his mouth and nose. The air still flowed easily into his lungs, but yet had an odd quality to it, as if it were many times denser than normal.  
  
He leaned further, arching his back as pulses of searing heat rose up his back in steady waves. He sucked the air in between his teeth, and the fine lines of air in his mouth felt razor-sharp and icy cold.  
  
His body felt weightless, and Harry realised that he was still moving backwards, further and further. His feet slid upwards until he lost all sense of self or space.  
  
The flames around deepened and twisted. Strange patterns, silhouettes of people and creatures, appeared and disappeared, forming into clouds of fractals which burst apart. The crystalline area of peace around him began to take on more complex details around its edges. Harry's eyes caught onto the boundary, and as he tried to focus clearly on it, the shape he'd taken for an orb spiraled out into a helix, and then again, and again, into impossible structures he had no name for.  
  
Harry lost track of his arms and legs. He became just a pair of lungs, inflating and deflating to the rhythm of the pulses running faster and faster up his spine. The air thickened further. He forgot how to breathe, and and the pulses ran faster still.  
  
He was the beat in the heart of a star.  
  
And then he wasn't anything at all.  
  
_Beat_  
  
_Beat_  
  
_There was soil beneath his toes. He stretched them out, and down, and drank. He turned his face to the sun. He opened his mouth to greet the sky, and found his heart on his tongue._  
  
_Beat_  
  
_The currents in the air held him aloft, moving over him, moving under him. He twisted his shoulder, and the changing pressure turned the rest of his body for him, angling him back on course. Something in his mind between exhaustion and exhilaration cried out in constant signal, tugging him north._  
  
_Beat_  
  
_Snow beneath his paws. Courage and comfort from kin nearby. Smoke in the air, warning humans, danger, but then the hot stink of prey like an avalanche crashing by, hamstrung by pack and weakened and falling and ambush and then blood between your jaws._  
  
_Beat_  
  
_Beat_  
  
The metallic tang of blood on his tongue shakes Harry from his reverie, and he pushes himself back upright. The coursing fractal of green fire writhes around him, and he opens his eyes, and then he opens his eyes  _again_.  
  
Stone beneath his feet. Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Author's Note removed by popular demand.

 

**Chapter Four**

**-**

 

Wisps of green hung in the air like fog on a cold morning, coiling and fading without ever completely dissipating. Harry opened and closed his fingers, stretching the boots on his feet felt tight and uncomfortable, as if they had shrunk a size and stiffened to wood. He took a small step, wiggling his toes to try to get the blood flowing back through them. He blinked back moisture which was gathering in eyes that seemed too dry all of a sudden.

"Mr. Potter?" said Hermione. She stared straight ahead, unblinking even as she addressed the other woman. "What - what was - Potter?" she asked again, her voice cracking hesitantly. She shivered, and a strand of frizzy hair fell into her eyes. She made no move to brush it out of the way.

Harry grinned, and turned his attention back to Hermione.

"Did you see that?" he asked excitedly. "I wasn't expecting - oh, of course! You're a witch!" Hermione blinked at long last, and turned to look at Harry. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, looking stunned.

Harry gave her a wide grin.

"I - I can taste the square root of twenty-three," mumbled Hermione.

"What did it taste like?" asked Harry excitedly.

Hermione pulled a face, swilling the saliva around inside her mouth, and then spat suddenly on the stone floor.

"Irregular," she said, and then blinked. Her eyes opened wide, and she snapped her head around to look at the damp patch on the ground. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! I don't know why I did that!" she exclaimed. The airy, confused tones had left her voice completely. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

Harry rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck. Little aftershocks of the magical experience danced across his limbs, making his legs feel oddly leaden but his arms too light, as if his wrists and forearms had disappeared to leave only hands floating through the air on a cloud of static electricity.

He waved a hand back and forth, savouring the feeling. It took effort to move through the air, as if it was denser than usual. A rushing sound filled his ears, growing louder and louder until it threatened to overwhelm him.

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. The sensation receded, as if he had actually swallowed it, leaving only a tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He began to laugh, and found that he couldn't stop. By the time that he had regained control of his faculties, he found that Hermione had gathered herself as well. She brushed several strands of hair out of her face with mixed success, and gave him an inscrutable look.

"What exactly did you do?" she asked.

"Magic, as you observed."

"But that's preposterous!" she exclaimed. "You have no training, no wand, no - no education! That's why I'm bringing you to - to Hogwarts?" Her words trailed off as she began to take in the surroundings. They were in a large stone room surrounded in the arches of grand doors. A wide staircase wound upwards in a lazy spiral at one end of the chambers. Four hourglasses full of coloured stones sat at its base.

"Oh good," said Harry. "I had hoped, but I've never been here before. Or tried travelling with Floo Powder before."

"That's not how you use Floo Powder."

"Seemed to work out alright to me," said Harry. "We've still got all of our limbs and most of our teeth."

A figure in sparkling purple robes stepped out from behind a nearby tapestry, patting voluminous sleeves free of dust as he approached. His wand swung from a knot tied in his beard, and a cobweb was stuck to his elbow.

"If only all of my students could boast as much upon graduation, I should consider my job very well done indeed. Good evening Miss Granger," he said, nodding at the witch before turning his attention to Harry. "Mr. Potter, welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'm very glad to meet you at last."

Harry squinted at Dumbledore suspiciously.

"Did you just come out of a secret passageway?"

Dumbledore smiled ruefully.

"Alas, no. I was merely hiding."

xXxXxXx

"This way, if you please," said Dumbledore, ushering Harry and Hermione quickly up the stairs. "We mustn't linger in the corridors."

"Who are you hiding from?" asked Harry.

"The most base kind of villain there is, Mr. Potter. A tattletale." Dumbledore froze suddenly, and then pulled Harry into a classroom. He peeked around the doorframe like a naughty school child, winking at Harry when he joined him.

A particularly mangy cat padded around the corner. Dumbledore leaned out of sight, and clasped a hand over Harry's mouth to stifle the laugh which bubbled out. The cat miaowed once, and sniffed the ground. It looked to and fro, and then continued searching down the corridor.

Once the cat was far enough away, Dumbledore straightened, and gave Harry a genial smile.

"That, my dear boy, was Mrs Norris. I regret to say that she will be acting as liaison to your - what was the term, Miss Granger? Ah, yes. Parole officer. A more dastardly beast has not walked these halls in decades, I assure you." Dumbledore raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"A cat?"

"She has tenure," said Dumbledore. "And tenure is an evil beyond even my abilities to defeat." He paused and looked at Harry knowingly. "I believe your earlier suggestion of a secret passage was rather inspired. Shall we?" He tapped his wand on the door jamb, and the door swung shut. There was a loud click, and then it opened again, revealing a different hallway altogether.

"In here, quickly," said Dumbledore, ushering Harry and Hermione through the open door. As soon as they were past the frame, he slammed the door shut. Something within the wall clicked, and then the door melted away, leaving only a depression between two pillars to mark where it had been.

Harry looked around the passage. The surfaces were all clean of dust, but there were no signs of life either. It looked like a disused corridor which had been scrubbed meticulously clean, or perhaps sealed away so tightly that not even dust could creep in.

The corridor continued for a dozen steps in either direction. At one end there was a stained glass window depicting a phoenix in flight. The setting sun, already tinged with orange, was burnished into a deeper red as it shone through the mosaic-like panels. The other end of the corridor fell away in a low, sloping staircase.

"This is one of the least used of all Hogwarts' secrets," said Dumbledore. "Why, I can't recall having passed through here myself more than a handful of times, and I've lived in this castle for almost a tenth of her entire life."

"I've never seen this passage before," said Hermione, slightly out of breath from the pace Dumbledore was setting. The stairs were broad and shallow, so the trio were moving at a fairly brisk rate. Despite being the eldest of the three, Dumbledore had taken the lead with a fairly vigorous speed. "Where does it lead?" she asked.

"To our destination, Miss Granger."

Harry chuckled quietly. Hermione shot him an inscrutable look, holding his gaze for a moment before her expression softened and lips turned up in a suggestion of a smile.

They continued downwards for quite some time. There were no windows here, in the heart of the castle, so the staircase was lit by iron sconces set into the walls. Bluebell flames rose spontaneously into existence as Dumbledore drew near, and vanished once the three had moved a certain distance onwards.

Harry paused to examine one, sticking his hand into the flame. They had a similar cool tickle to the flames of his trip through the Floo. They clung to his fingers like oil, yet burned away into nothingness when he pulled his hand away from the sconce. He twisted his hand this way and that, studying the flames. There was something about the sensation of them tickling against his skin which bothered him; something just on the edge of realisation.

He popped one in his mouth and let it roil over his tongue like a wave. It tasted peculiar - not quite a taste so much as the memory of one. It was reminiscent of honey and salt and blackberries.

Without warning it disappeared, vanishing first from one side of his mouth, and the the other.

Harry's eyes widened, and he spun around to stare at Dumbledore. The older wizard's back was turned as he marched onwards, chattering away with Hermione. Harry had thought that the sconces were enchanted, but with a small amount of shock he realised that this wasn't the case. It had disappeared from the side of his mouth furthest from Dumbledore first, leaving only the lingering traces of magic tugging ever so slightly in his direction. That could only mean one thing.

Dumbledore had been summoning the flames as they walked by, casting magic without a wand or word or gesture. More than that, he had done it with such an enviable casualness that Harry had believed the magic was spontaneously happening around him rather than being cast.

A knot in Harry's stomach unwound itself, and he felt a tension lift off his shoulders. This was real magic. Not a spell or a charm or a gimmick, but something much closer to Harry's own craft.

Both the professor and Hermione were quite some distance away by now, so Harry broke into a jog to catch up with them.

They were waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. A heavy oak door bound with brass blocked off the passage, with only a small square left at the base of the stairway for them to stand in. Harry stepped off the final stair, and found there was just enough room for him to squeeze into that space beside the others. Dumbledore gave him a knowing look. Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation, and then turned her attention back to Dumbledore.

"Where does this passage lead?" Hermione asked again, looking between Harry and Dumbledore. "We must be below the dungeons by now!"

"It would certainly seem that way, wouldn't it?" agreed Dumbledore. "Would you be a dear and get the door for me?"

Hermione grasped the large brass ring which made up the handle, and pushed. It creaked, but didn't move. She narrowed her eyes and shoved at it again, pushing her shoulder right up against the wood. The wood groaned against the strain, and then burst open.

Icy wind tore into the stale air of the stairway. Hermione shrieked, and clung to the brass ring with both hands, which only served to make the door swing open further, and pull her out onto the other side.

A narrow bridge carved from a single piece of unbroken stone lay ahead of them. The wind gusted about something fierce, and even from inside the castle Harry felt it pull at his hair and clothes. Outside, the door revealed a view almost from the top of one of Hogwarts' towers. Although they had spent a fair bit of time walking downwards, they had ended up at this height, with only the bridge in front of them to connect this tower to the one in front. It spanned a gap of at least thirty feet, and had no railings, handholds, or even a lip on the edge; just a flat piece of stone which was perhaps four feet in width.

Dumbledore chuckled, and strode out into the open air, taking care not to brush past Hermione as she stared directly down. The roof of the Great Hall was immediately beneath them. Crystal spires were set into the apex of the roof at even intervals. Harry could count seven in total. The thrum of magic clung to them in an otherworldly glow, and he wondered at their purpose.

Hermione bit her lip, and slowly unclenched her hands from the door. She had straightened up and was just about to take her first step when Harry noticed a tell-tale shimmer in the air around the bridge. A wicked thought rose up, and he stepped forwards quietly. Hermione was so engaged in carefully moving out that she didn't notice him sneak up behind her.

He shoved her in the small of the back, sending her over the edge of the bridge.

Her scream was perfect, and Harry laughed as she bounced off the cushioning charms suspended in the air, and was flung back onto the bridge. She staggered, her balance completely lost in the moment of fear, and accidentally stepped off the other side. The charms repelled her again, bouncing her off a cushion of dense air.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist," said Harry, still laughing to himself. He grabbed Hermione by the shoulders, steadying her. She whirled around to face him, whipping herself in the face with her hair. She spat it out, and glared at him.

"The release form hasn't been signed yet," she growled. "I can still have you thrown in Azkaban for fifteen years."

Harry grinned.

"That's what I asked you to do, if you remember," he said. He raised his hands and mimed pushing her again, only to find a wand pressed against his sternum.

"Help! Professor!" he called out. "Police brutality!"

Dumbledore looked over his shoulder and shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. Harry heard the indistinct mutter of "First Years," and then the headmaster walked on.

"There are no police brutality laws in the Wizarding World Mr. Potter," said Hermione, moving closer to him with a menacing scowl. Her hair had begun to flop back down in front of her face. She shook it back in annoyance, but it fell down again.

Harry brushed it out of her eyes for her. She blinked, and froze for a moment. Spots of red appeared on her cheeks.

"I- I'm not really DMLE anyway," she stammered out. Hermione turned away to hide her embarrassment, and stormed away. Harry followed after her, still chuckling almost all the way until they had entered the other tower. From there it was just a short climb to the headmaster's office.

xXxXxXx

"Ah yes, thank you," said Dumbledore, taking the thick folder of parchment from Hermione. "I shall assume the paperwork has been completed to your usual standards of excellence, and will peruse it at my leisure." He smiled up at Hermione, and tapped the folder with his wand. The parchment twisted around itself, first crumpling into a ball and then expanding outwards. It twisted through the impossible shapes of Transfiguration until fine layer of steam began to rise from the surface. The steam hissed, and the folder became a chipped porcelain tea set.

"Will you be joining us for tea?" he asked.

"Thank you, but no. I really must be getting along now," said Hermione, climbing to her feet. "You can let me know how things turn out at the next meeting. Goodnight Professor, Mr. Potter."

She left rapidly, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore in his office. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching each other through the rising spiral of steam above the teapot.

"So you'll be reporting back to the Ministry on how my rehabilitation is progressing?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore chuckled.

"Oh, not at all. They've handed you over to me completely. It's an interesting idea, isn't it, this community service? Any wrongdoing of yours is my responsibility while you are in my care, and in exchange I gain the advantage of your services. A fair trade, don't you think?"

"But Granger mentioned a meeting?" said Harry.

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "That's a different matter altogether. We're part of the same social club. If our little arrangement today works out well, perhaps I'll bring you along to the meeting."

Harry shrugged. He wrinkled his nose, and then leaned forwards, peering at the teapot.

"That's not tea, is it?"

In response, Dumbledore poured Harry a cup, passing it over the table. It was full of hot chocolate. Harry stared at it, and before his eyes several marshmallows popped into existence just over the surface. They fell with an almost inaudible plop into the hot chocolate.

Harry lifted the cup to his lips. Even before the liquid hit his tongue, his mouth was full of an overwhelming sweetness. The vapour rising from the hot chocolate coiled within his mouth, condensing and settling into a spiderweb of crystallised sugar. Harry bit down. It crunched beneath his teeth, fizzing pleasantly on his tongue. It was almost too sweet, but the drink itself balanced it out with the rich bitterness of dark chocolate.

After the first mouthful, the vapour rose back up from the cup, flooding his mouth with sweetness once again. The combination of drink and crystal candy took his full attention until the cup sat empty once again on the saucer.

Dumbledore watched him with a pleased expression.

"What am I going to be doing for you?" asked Harry, working his mouth to get the last vestiges of the sugar candy out of the corners of his gums.

"Odd jobs, for the most part. Hogwarts has found herself in need of a castellan. I was hoping that you might become a good fit for the role."

"What does a castellan do?"

"This and that," said Dumbledore. "Keeping the castle in order, for the most part."

"You want me for your cleaner?" Harry frowned at the dregs of his drink. "I've played along with this set-up so far, but if you think I'm just going to roll over and become some menial servant," he said, catching himself mid-sentence and biting off the end of his retort. "I don't wish to be a rude guest, but perhaps I should thank you for the drink and take my leave."

Dumbledore raised one hand, palm outwards in a gesture of peace.

"There's a little more to it than that, but yes, cleaning the castle would also fall under your jurisdiction. You wouldn't need to clean the castle yourself - we have house elves for that. You can if you wish," he added, flashing an unexpected wink at Harry from behind his spectacles. "Besides," continued Dumbledore. "Unless my information is severely out of date, you have nowhere else to go."

Harry stood abruptly, knocking his cup and saucer off the desk. The fine bone china shattered loudly on the floor, decapitating one of the kittens painted in a pattern around its rim. Dumbledore rapped his knuckles on the desk, and the shards of porcelain vanished.

"So you set this whole thing up?" demanded Harry. "This was all just a scheme to manipulate me into coming here?" He shoved his chair roughly out of the way. As it was a large armchair, solidly built, it only moved a few inches. He pushed past it, making his way towards the door.

"Yes," replied Dumbledore amiably.

Harry paused, and turned back to look at the other man. Dumbledore sipped from his hot chocolate and smacked his lips in enjoyment.

"You're not going to deny it?"

"Why would I deny helping the son of an old student out of a spot of trouble?" asked Dumbledore. "Not to mention the student of an old friend."

"My teacher despised you," said Harry slowly.

"Many of my oldest friends do," said Dumbledore, taking another sip. "I fear it's my personality which does it." He frowned, and placed the cup down. "I also fear that this drink has gone cold. It's never the same when you re-heat it, even with magic." With a flick of his wand he vanished the drink. A second flick moved Harry's armchair back into position. "I know this must be a difficult time for you, Harry. I also mourn his loss, more than he might credit me for."

"How did you hear about his death?" asked Harry, settling cautiously back into the chair.

"Why, you told me," said Dumbledore. "He swore that he would not let the Wizarding World know of your survival so long as he drew breath. He was not a man to speak oaths lightly."

Harry frowned, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning back.

"Why would he say something like that?"

"Of all the magics we inherited from the ancient Roman wizards, there was nothing he despised so much as prophecy."

xXxXx

The castellan's rooms lay directly beneath the headmaster's office. A thick layer of stone precluded the spread of any noises, or so Dumbledore had assured Harry with another wink as he left him at the door.

Harry lay back on a ridiculously oversized four-poster bed and stared at the canopy overhead. It felt like years since he'd slept in an actual bed. It was so soft as to be overwhelming, and he felt that he was sinking so far into the mattress that it might close up over him and swallow him whole.

He turned over onto his side, and then again onto the other.

It was no good.

He had lain there for hours, mulling over the situation he now found himself in. The set of rooms he'd been presented with were a kingly suite, outfitted with luxurious furniture and dimensions which would have been excessive in an actual palace.

"All this for a cleaner?" he muttered into his pillow.

"No dear, you're the castellan," said the mirror. He threw the pillow at it, and it responded with an indignant yelp.

Harry sat up, sighing and rubbing at his nose with the back of a hand. The phantom itch which had settled there was just the latest of a thousand tiny discomforts which had built up as he lay there. He stood, and glanced over at the window. Heavy wooden shutters blocked out all light, so he could only see them through the textured grain of his oaksight. It wasn't enough. He could still feel the hum of the moon beyond them.

He strode over to the window, bare feet slapping silently against the flagstones. They were beyond cold to the touch, but he relished the sensation. The lock on the shutters had rusted shut. More than that, it had rusted through so much that he barely had to exert himself to tear them open. The protest of red iron cracking open was like a thunderclap in the silence of the castle at midnight.

Behind the shutters, the window itself was a cage of black metal holding narrow panes of glass together. Harry grimaced in frustration. No matter the icy chill of stone under his bare feet, he longed to feel the breeze on his face. The air in the room was stifling. This room had to be ten paces across, but the walls felt as if they were closing in.

Harry slammed his fist against the windowsill. The stones buckled under the impact, but then he felt a gentle pressure against his knuckles. He looked at them curiously, not moving his fist from where it depressed to stonework. Beneath his gaze, the stone bubbled upward, gently but firmly pushing his hand upwards until the stones lay once again in an unblemished line.

From somewhere deep in his chest, Harry felt a manic laugh begin to bubble up. He reached out with one finger, and drove it through a pane of glass as if he was holding a knife. Almost immediately there was a peculiar sucking sensation around the digit as the window sought to pull itself back together. Harry drew his finger back and watched as the glass healed itself.

He took a step back, studying the frame. Dumbledore had said that these were his rooms, to do with and decorate as he pleased. The manic laugh rose again, this time rising past his chest and out of his mouth.

He took another step back, and then dove forwards, straight into the window. It held for a fraction of a second, and then with the groan of tortured metal, the framework within the glass tore itself loose as a single unit, tearing massive gouges out of the surrounding walls.

A cool breeze licked at Harry's face at last, whipping his hair about, and settling the growing unease within his gut.

The window frame hung in the air as a solid object for a moment, and then the individual squares of glass fell to the ground. The moonlight glinted off them as they fell; a shower of diamond dust glimmering against the backdrop of empty night.

A heartbeat later, the iron frame itself began to fall, and Harry along with it. He kicked the metal away from him as he fell, letting out a whoop of glee. The breeze magnified into a rushing gale as he fell, scouring his naked body with an almost painful caress.

Bats swarmed underneath him in the undulating murmuration of geometric shapes reminiscent almost of the twisting staircases in the heart of Hogwarts. Harry turned over in the air, looking up at the night sky. The moon was nearly full, but almost as soon as his eyes touched its pale face, the bats had passed him, and blocked it out of his field of vision.

And then Harry struck the ground.

A thick carpet of moss and grass muted the impact to just a muffled thud. The tremors shook through the ground and his body alike, and for a time he just lay there, breathing deeply. The wetness of dew against his bare back was refreshing beyond his ability to describe. Harry curled his toes into the earth, relishing the feel of soil underfoot.

In the distance, a long tentacle rose out of the lake and crashed back down, sending a spray of water almost all the way to the shore.


	5. Chapter Five

_A/N: Did you know that the common or "garden" variety muggle can jump an average of sixteen vertical inches?_

 

**Chapter Five**

**-**

 

Stones flew up from underneath Harry's feet as he ran towards the lake. The Hogwarts' grounds were sloping here, but the earth was dry from the summer sun. He didn't slip or stumble; even when his foot caught beneath a branch he managed to twist out of the way at the last moment and keep a steady pace. The night air was as invigorating as a spray of water on his face.

Soon the grass gave way to a rocky shore. Damp, sandy soil clung to the soles of Harry's feet. He paid them no heed, and carried on running straight towards the lake. The water held his weight for one step, and then a second, and then Harry's manic focus cracked and he sank up to his ankles in icy silt.

Harry paused, and sighed wistfully. He'd nearly had it that time.

A thestral cried out in the distance. Tiny waves lapped at the base of his legs.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you going to keep me waiting all night?"

Fronds of water plants caressed his bare leg. The sensation tickled at first, but then a reed wrapped itself around his leg like a vice, and yanked him to the ground. Something changed in the air, as if there had been a soundless thunderclap.

Harry fell heavily into the water. The harsh slap of the lakebed against his skin stung more than the fall from the tower had, and knocked the wind out of his lungs from both the force of the impact and the sudden coldness all over his body.

"I do not come when summoned, boy!" boomed a voice which seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The flock of thestrals in the background quieted, and a flock of birds rose in loud panic from their nests in trees along the shoreline. The volume of the voice was such that it sent ripples across the surface of the lake. Harry gasped for breath, his heart thudding in his chest as rapidly as the water shook. When the lake finally stilled, Harry could see the reflection of the Each-Uisge in the water beneath him, outlined by the light of a moon several steps closer to full than the one which hung in the sky above Hogwarts.

"You say that," said Harry, his voice still tight from the blow. "But I summoned you. And you came."

The creature roared again, this time without words. With a crackle, ice began to form on the surface of the water, rushing towards Harry. Within moments it had frozen him in place, thickest around his legs and arms where the ice climbed up his limbs like winter manacles.

Each-Uisge's reflection was defined much more clearly in ice. Harry could see the heavy grindstones of icicles which made up its teeth as they were barred in a fierce snarl.

Harry pushed himself up, but couldn't get any leverage from the awkward position in which he lay. He struggled and flexed, but couldn't break the ice. Each-Uisge laughed, a wicked sound like an avalanche in the dark.

He paused. He breathed. And he found the hoofprint of the Each-Uisge's magic laced through the ice. With a twist of will he snapped it, returning the eldritch power to its owner and turning the frozen manacles back into mere frozen water. Harry stood easily, the ice rupturing and falling from his as easily as a blanket had he sat up in bed.

"I know how to free you!" blurted out Harry before Each-Uisge could respond. "I've gathered everything I need."

The beast surged forward, rising out of the water not in flesh but as a dripping apparition of nearly-frozen water. It huffed, and mist engulfed Harry. It brought its head down to touch his chest.

"The night when  _gealach_ fills the sky and the dark of the year begins. Samhain. That is the night for curses to be broken and fealty sworn. Release me, and all the power I can bring to bear will serve you for an eternity."

The mist rising from the creature hissed, and the temperature plummeted even further. It lifted up its head until its multifaceted eyes were level with his. While the rest of its body was blurred by the distortion of falling water, its eyes were the same carved grey crystal they had been when the aughiskey had stood in flesh before him.

"But mark me, Finder! Fail, and I shall release you from the burdens of life. I will drown you on dry land and mark the spot where you fall with a mistletoe tree."

Each-Uisge's illusory body fell away, leaving only the reflection of moonlight on the planes of its eyes and teeth. Soon they were gone, too, and Harry stood alone in the lake. As the magical presence which had filled the air began to fall away, Harry began to realise how cold he was. His skin was turning blue, and white spots had begun to form on the backs of his hands. He hurriedly stepped out of the lake, and shook himself as close to dry as he could. His toes felt like coals as they burned in the night air.

Grimacing against the pain, Harry trudged away from the lake. He looked over to the tower where his rooms lay. A window was lit, perhaps two floors above his. It looked like the headmaster was still awake. Harry stared at it longingly for a moment, imagining the soft orange glow to come from the warmth of a fireplace, and then he curled his toes into the hard earth to feel the caress of the earth.

He turned away, and strode towards the forest.

xXxXxXxXx

Harry woke to an umbrella poking him in the small of the back.

"Er," said a small mountain. "Yeh alright there?"

Harry turned over, blearily opening his eyes. The sun had almost come up, and the watery light of dawn just barely made it through the thick foliage. He yawned, stretching his shoulders and wiggling until he was comfortable in the bed he'd dug out of the loamy forest floor. A leaf lodged itself somewhere unspeakable. With a groan, he fished it out, and sat up.

Somewhere in the distance a bird was singing rude limericks about its genitals to attract a mate, and the leaves trembled under a mild breeze. Dewdrops were clinging to the grass, but the grass was fairly sparse this deep into the forest, replaced instead by thick tree roots and a carpet of fallen sticks. Harry had dug a shallow bowl out of the forest floor, creating a cosy indentation in the soil to keep the wind off him. It held him more comfortably than any bed ever could. He didn't truly feel the cold, and the boughs of the oak tree overhead sheltered him with a feeling of homeliness which would never come from stone walls.

"Best bed in Hogwarts," said Harry, stretching once again. He blinked twice, and stared up at the newcomer. "Who are you?"

The mountain puffed himself up even further, crinkling eyes which hid like beetles behind a mass of wiry hair.

"Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o' Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts."

"Why are you," began Harry, before remembering the events of the night before. "Oh, yes. I forgot. Hogwarts Minimum-Security School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, right?"

"Er," said Hagrid, fidgeting nervously with his umbrella. Despite his massive frame, he shuffled nervously from one foot to the other like a schoolgirl being asked to a dance.

"I'm Harry Potter," said Harry. "Kept under keys on the grounds of Hogwarts, I suppose."

Hagrid stared for a moment, and then pulled Harry out of the hole in the ground into a bone-cracking hug.

"Little Harry!" he exclaimed. "Not so little now, after all, eh? I don't suppose you remember me, do yeh?"

Harry stared at the other man. What little of his cheeks were visible under the beard were flushed red with excitement as much as the early morning air, and he positively shook with anticipation. He looked so earnest that Harry almost said yes, but something about the other man made it impossible to lie to him. It would have been like lying to a puppy.

"I can't imagine forgetting you easily, but no. Have we - have we met?" he asked doubtfully.

"Oh, yeh were only a tyke, so no wonder yeh don' remember. I was the one who - well, never mind tha' now, I'm an old friend o' yer mum and dad."

"My mum and dad?" asked Harry. He cocked his head in confusion. "But I was hatched from the bud of a mistletoe flower on a night with no moon." Hagrid froze, and lessened the pressure on the hug. Harry gasped for breath with no small amount of gratitude.

"What was tha'?" Hagrid asked, looking stunned. Harry felt a twinge of guilt deep in his chest. His constant desire to mess with people was no good here. There was something too naive about the gentle giant holding him.

"Nevermind," said Harry quickly. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask yeh the same," said Hagrid. "Dumbledore mentioned you were coming to stay for a while, but what're yeh doing out in the forest? It's not safe out here."

Harry pushed himself free from Hagrid's arms, and dusted himself off. A particularly twiggy patch of mulch had somehow congregated in his belly button, and he did his best to knock it loose discreetly. It came with being a restless sleeper; nobody could creep up on him at night, but he also wound up covered in bits of tree. He had to take the good with the bad.

"When, exactly, did he say I was coming?"

"Oh, about a week ago, or maybe two. I'm not sure. Aren't yeh cold?" asked Hagrid, studiously looking Harry in the eyes. Harry feigned ignorance, and shrugged. There was a cool breeze in the early morning, but that was as good as a coffee - or at least the closest you could expect to get when sleeping naked in the forest. Hagrid shouldered his way out of his thick coat. Harry attempted to protest, but his words were muffled by a metric ton of fabric landing on top of him a second later.

"Really, I'm fine," said Harry, attempting to push the coat back at Hagrid, who looked away, and refused to accept it. "I'm not cold." Hagrid stammered out an unintelligible response, and Harry sighed. For no reason but the other man's embarrassment, he put the coat on. Although Harry wasn't a small man, it completely dwarfed him. "Hagrid," he said. "Your coat's going to get filthy trailing through the mud like this."

Soon Hagrid had escorted Harry almost all the way to the Great Hall. They stood in the Entrance Hall, Hagrid once more looking awkward, and Harry once more standing naked in the morning chill.

"Hagrid, we're inside," insisted Harry. "Take your coat back. Look, you're clearly cold. I can see you shivering."

Hagrid looked away, and refused to even meet Harry's eyes this time.

"Put it back on!" he cried. Harry rolled his eyes, and attempted to toss the coat over Hagrid's head. Hagrid was far too tall, and the coat far too heavy, so it crumpled into a pile on the floor.

Something rapped Harry on the head. He whirled around to see an older woman there, wand held imperiously a few inches away from Harry's head. He began to protest, but was cut off by the sudden appearance of conjured clothes all over his body. They were plain brown robes with a Hogwarts crest over the heart. With a small pop, boots appeared beneath his feet and hoisted him up an inch as their thick soles forced their way into existence.

Harry glowered.

"Mr. Potter," she said, a mild Scottish accent elongating her vowels. "There is no formal dress code for staff members, even probationary ones, but I must insist that you at least dress."

Seeing the stern look in the woman's face, Harry swallowed his protests and followed her into the Great Hall. When her back was turned, he kicked off the boots, which had somehow gotten unlaced on their own. They tumbled across the floor and came to a stop when they crashed into the foot of a suit of armour which stood posed as a guard to the hall.

Harry strode past her, trying not to smile, and crossed the hall to where Dumbledore sat at a long trestle table.

"Good morning Professor!" he sang out.

"Hello Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore, offering a nod to Professor McGonagall. "Do take a seat. You as well, Hagrid."

A few other teachers were sitting with them. A sour-looking man with a hooked nose and long, greasy hair was at one end of the table. An empty chair sat between him and the next man, who was as small as Hagrid was large. Everyone else had empty plates, obviously waiting for the others to arrive before they started their meal. The man with greasy hair alone had been eating; stains of miscellaneous food debris stained his plate, and there was a croissant in his mouth.

"If you'll excuse me, Headmaster," he said, voice muffled by the croissant. "I should really get back to my work, or Poppy will have a short stock come September."

"Come now, Severus," said Dumbledore, an inscrutable expression flickering over his face. "Surely it won't take you all of two months to replenish a few bottles of Skele-Gro and Pepper-Up Potion."

Snap took the croissant out of his mouth, using his free hand to snatch a second from the bowl in front of him.

"It may," he said evenly. "If I am not permitted to observe my brewing."

Dumbledore sighed, looking sad for only a moment before smiling once more.

"Of course," he said. Snape began to walk away quickly, never once looking in Harry's direction. Rather than walking past the newcomers, he made his way to a small side door at the back of the hall. "Severus!" called out Dumbledore to his retreating back. "Will we see you at dinner?"

"Perhaps," he replied, in a tone which seemed to say no.

"I don't know why you bother," muttered the small man sitting nearest to him. Dumbledore shushed him quickly, and gestured for Harry and Hagrid to sit down. Hagrid took the seat where Snape had been, not caring that the crockery had already been used and spearing a rasher of bacon. He piled the empty plate next to him high first and handed it to Harry before he began to take any food for himself.

"I always find myself at odds on the first night in a new bed," said Dumbledore, eyes crinkling at the corner. "How did you sleep?"

"Like a baby," said Harry.

"In more ways than one," muttered McGonagall.

xXxXxXxXx

Harry hefted the bucket up higher, balancing it on his hip for a moment. He sighed, and watched Hagrid bumble up the track behind him. Hagrid was carrying a bucket in either hand, each one stuffed to the brim with raw meat, just as Harry's was. Harry cracked his neck and strode forward, curling the sleeve of his robe around the handle to prevent the metal from digging into his skin.

There was no real reason to stick around Hogwarts, but he saw no need to make an enemy of the Ministry of Magic in his first week as part of the Wizarding World. As he picked up a fallen piece of meat to stuff it back in the bucket, he began to wonder if he'd made the right choice. The meat was a peculiar colour tinged with green. Harry tried not to speculate on its origin.

"Hagrid," he said. "Remind me where we're going, would you?"

Hagrid beamed, and caught up with Harry in a few strides.

"We're taking these dragon steaks into the forest. Really nourishing, yeh see? Full o' vitamins and magic that yeh don' normally get around here. I brined 'em in a nutrient potion, too. Just one bite helps yeh grow bigger and stronger."

Harry looked back down into the bucket. The meat was cut into roughly ball-shaped chunks, each one about the size of both his fists put together. He ran through the list of carnivorous creatures he'd expect to encounter in Scotland. It was relatively small.

"All the wolves I've seen so far look like they're a healthy weight," he said hesitantly.

"Oh. Uh, no, it's not fer the wolves," said Hagrid. "Or the werewolves. They, uh, make do for themselves." Harry put a hand on the trunk of a fallen tree and vaulted over it. A bowtruckle chittered at him, and ran up the back of his arm. He plucked it out of his sleeve without looking, and placed it back on the tree, only for it to leap off a second later when Hagrid picked the tree up and hoisted it off the path.

"You can't mean it's for a bear?" he asked. "I know there are still a few living in magical Britain, but teaching a bear to take food from people so close to a school is a terrible idea."

"No! Not a bear. Too much meat's not good for 'em anyway. Fish and berries is what yeh'd want to give a bear," said Hagrid. Harry frowned, wondering what other creature Hagrid could be feeding. He'd seen the herd of Thestrals on their way into the forest, but Hagrid had passed them by. Unicorns wouldn't eat meat, and nobody would feed a troll. Harry sniffed the air. The acrid tang of magic was everywhere, but even over the beacon of Hogwarts in the background and the ambient hum of the forest itself, Harry was certain he'd have been able to sense a dragon. No, he was sure there hadn't been a Hebridean Black in the forest for years.

"Hagrid. What kind of creature are you feeding this growth serum to?" Harry turned to face him, blocking the narrow path. "Come on, mate. You're obviously avoiding the question. You're about as subtle as a Squib in a wand shop."

"Speaking o' wands," began Hagrid, not meeting Harry's eyes. "I can' help but notice yeh don't have one either."

"I also don't have an umbrella," said Harry, electing not to bring up the way Hagrid's umbrella handle shimmered in his other senses with the tell-tale aura of dragon heartstring. Hagrid blushed. "Oh, come on, then," said Harry, deciding to drop it. He knew he'd find out what creature it was soon enough.

"It's fer Aragog," said Hagrid. "He's bin lookin' a bit peaky lately. I was hopin' a treat migh' perk him up a bit."

"And Aragog is?"

"An ol' friend."

It wasn't much longer before their path took a downwards turn, and they wandered into the sunken hollow between two hills. The forest grew close and dark here, but there was still enough light to make out the gigantic spiderwebs. Harry looked at them in disgust. The ambient magic of the Forbidden Forest was different here, as if the music was being played on a different scale just off the edge of hearing. More than that, it was shrill and piping, and bled through into Harry's other senses as he struggled to process the unfamiliar information. It felt a little like a heavy crowd of people in the distance, all of whom were blowing dog whistles.

Something crunched underfoot. It felt like an old twig, but light dappling through the leaves caught it at a particular angle and Harry saw a flash of white. He plucked it from the ground and held it in the air, tilting it into a small patch where sunlight penetrated the gloom to get a better look. It was a bone. A rib, definitely, although it was so badly damaged that he couldn't guess which animal it might have come from. Pockmarks along the length of the bone looked a little like it had been chewed, but also a little like it had been corroded in some kind of acid.

Harry raised it to his mouth, about to taste it to see if he could determine what manner of beast it came from. Just before it touched his tongue, he thought better of it, and drew the bone away. He flicked it into the undergrowth, aiming it for the nearest node in the uncanny rhythm of magic around him.

There was a thud, and a shriek, and then fangs.

A spider the size of a small car leapt at Harry's face.

"Hagrid, no!" shouted Hagrid, rushing forward to grab the Acromantula and wrestle it to the ground. It writhed and spat, but, incredibly, did not attempt to bite him. The shadows all around them moved, and what seemed like a hundred spiders of sizes varying from that of a small dog to a single monster as large as an elephant with a leg span which seemed almost twenty feet long.

Harry tensed. He was never truly unarmed, but here he stood on unfamiliar soil and couldn't see the sky. He bit his cheek, and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He breathed deep, readying himself for the confrontation to come. His sinuses flooded with the smell of ozone as he began to move his mind into the pattern of thought necessary for blood magic. He opened his hands wide, fingers splayed - and then he paused.

The spiders weren't coming forwards, and Hagrid no longer appeared to be wrestling the spider so much as embracing it. Something clicked in Harry's mind, and he let the blood trance fade away.

"Did you just call that Acromantula...Hagrid?" he asked.

"This here's Aragog's eldest," said Hagrid, letting go of the spider and standing back upright. The spider clicked its mandibles together and brushed up against Hagrid, butting its head against him like a cat looking to be petted. Hagrid laid a hand on its carapace and scratched it fondly. "Named him fer me, he did. Brought me right deep into the forest to show me this clutch of eggs, first one already crackin' open. Said he was gonna call 'im Hagrid Junior! Proudest moment o' me life, when I became a grampa."

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. He felt a twitch in his forehead, and tried to resist the urge to grind his teeth together. The lingering vestiges of blood magic crackled against a disquiet mind, and he let the embers of promised destruction mellow into white noise. He knew he'd pay for that later. His blood magic was a sword which must taste blood before returning to its sheath. There were other ways to cast blood magic, of course. But those methods were so lacking in style that he didn't care to consider using them. He turned his gaze back onto the spider Hagrid had embraced. The coarse bristles on the ends of its legs were catching in Hagrid's beard as it pawed at his face. Harry stared at the unlikely couple in disbelief, but Hagrid stood there and allowed the arachnid to fondle him as if they were shaking hands.

The acromantula turned its gaze on Harry, at least six of its eight eyes, and skittered towards him. Harry resisted the urge to take a step backwards, instead allowing the crackle of shuttered blood magic to rise back into his awareness.

"Acromantula are supposed to be indigenous to Brazil, aren't they?" he asked. Hagrid beamed, and Harry felt his heart sink. He watched as Hagrid greeted another acromantula which had dared to wander out into the open, and tried not to speculate as to how a man could form such a close relationship with a colony of gigantic cannibalistic spiders. "Wait," said Harry, realisation suddenly hitting him. "If you're his grampa, does that mean you're the one who raised him?"

"Nah, don' be silly!" said Hagrid. "I raised his da, Aragog. Where is your da, anyway?" he asked, before turning back to Harry and grinning sheepishly. "The little uns aren't so good at speakin'. I taught Aragog meself, raised him from an egg, but they don' really talk out loud amongst themselves."

The acromantula tapped its legs against Hagrid in a rapid shuffling motion, almost vibrating against him. Hagrid squinted, screwing up his face until he was just a mass of wrinkles on top of a beard.

"Er," he began. "What was tha'?" He looked back over to Harry and shrugged. "I'm not so good at understandin' them either, so it's fair enough, yeah? Say again?" he added, addressing the spider once more. Hagrid Junior repeated his peculiar motion, and understanding dawned on Hagrid's face. "Aragog's a bit deeper in the colony," he said. "Bit o' trouble along the border with the centaur territory, sounds like,so he's bin stayin' home of late."

"Centaurs, Hagrid? Really? What kind of open border policy does this forest have? Introducing a foreign apex predator which rapidly reproduces into our fragile local ecosystem, sure, why not, that's always good for a laugh, but why on earth would you bring a herd of the single most rapacious breed of sentient onto school grounds?"

"Centaurs?" repeated Hagrid, looking confused.

"Greeks!"

"Centaurs don't really care much for wealth, Harry," said Hagrid doubtfully. "An' Aragog's kin may like a meal as much as the next folk, but there's no animal as is much different in my experience."

Looking at Hagrid's guileless expression, Harry couldn't help but give it up. He shook his head, and looked back at the spider, which was wriggling backwards and forwards ever so slightly with what appeared to be pent up energy.

"Is it alrigh' if Hagrid says hello to you?" asked Hagrid. "Touch is real important for them, y'see. They have lots o' eyes but they don' work the same as ours do." Harry eyed the fangs which were as big as broadswords, and hesitated. The acromantula may not have been a threat to him, but even if the fangs wouldn't penetrate his skin, he didn't want them slobbering all over him. Hagrid must have mistaken Harry's disgust for fear, because he gave Harry a thumbs up and grinned. "Nah, nah, don' worry. He knows yer not food. Er. Yeh did wash yer hands after breakfast, didn't yeh?"

Harry sighed. The taste of tin in his mouth was a constant reminder that he was just a thought away from turning Hagrid into jam and the spider into a worse flavour of jam, but he continued to ignore it. He supposed that it was too late to complain now. The webbing was thick around the clearing, and as he grew more accustomed to it, the flickers of acromantula lives all around him grew more numerous to his senses. There were hundreds of the creatures in the forest, at least.

"No wonder there are no good honest British dragons around," he muttered to himself, before opening his arms. "Alright Hagrid Junior, come give your Uncle Harry a hug."

The acromantula's touch was soft, almost delicate. Somehow that made it worse. Harry had to struggle to stop himself from jerking away from the creature. Every instinct screamed to him that this was a predator looming in front of him. His fight-or-flight reflex was definitely saying fight, but it was also saying fight from a distance. Knowing that behaving like prey would only help to convince the acromantula that he was prey, Harry kept himself held firm in position. One of its mandibles brushed against his left cheek, and he closed that eye immediately. It was one thing to let a spider touch his face, but it was another entirely to let it taste his eyeball.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was done, and it scuttled away. Harry drew in a relieved breath, and tried not to shudder.

"There, that wasn' so bad, was it?" asked Hagrid. "Now we can go meet Aragog. He'll be tellin' his brood all about yeh, of course, but that'll go a lot further now tha' yeh've met Hagrid Junior."

"Why exactly will Aragog be telling all of his spider pals about me?" asked Harry. "Particularly sociable species, are they?"

"They like a bit of gossip, alright. But mostly because yeh'll be coming by here fairly often and I wouldn't want yeh ter get eaten."

"What possible reason could I have for coming out to visit an acromantula colony? Hagrid, this is your weird hobby, not mine."

"I'm gonna be away from the castle fer a little while. It's one of the reasons why Dumbledore picked you up to help look after things. One of the jobs I've got for yeh to pick up is visitin' the colony. Yeh can get the nutrient potion from Snape, and jus' brine some meat in it. Any kind will do, but dragon goes down a right treat. It does them good to see people. People they aren't allowed to eat, that is. Dumbledore gets a mite tetchy when they forget that students are supposed to be off the menu." Hagrid paused, and looked at Harry with a grave expression. "They're only spiders, Harry. Spiders cannae remember fer shite."

"Do they eat students often?" asked Harry, sensing the aggregate of spider lives thickest in the clearing just ahead. Following Hagrid's lead, he also paused, and was glad of the opportunity to peer into the darkness and get a feel for the layout. Just in case anything went wrong.

""One o' them Weasley boys was wandering in the forest. The youngest, uh, Ron, I think. Musta bin him, 'cause the others went around as a pair and Ron had ter explore on his own on account of not having friends. Figures he'd get attacked by an acromantula. I told 'em! I told 'em a hundred times not ter go wanderin' around in here. His mum made such a fuss, but he barely got penetrated."

Hagrid scratched his beard, and placed the pail of meat on the ground for a moment. A spider which barely came up to Harry's knee came running up. Hagrid brushed it away with his foot, albeit gently. It sank its fangs into the thick leather of his boot and hissed.

"Aren't they venomous?"

"Yeh can't poison a boot, Harry," said Hagrid. "The fertilizer on me pumpkin patch woulda done me in long since if yeh could. Besides, she's far too small for her venom to be up to much yet."

There was a cracking noise overhead, like dry branches tearing in the breeze, and a colossal leg came down between the two men. It flickered to and fro, questing for the young spider. Hagrid reached out with one hand, and patted it on what passed for a knee. "Don't worry mate, she'll tire herself out before long."

"I must be firm with the young, Hagrid," boomed a voice in the distance, made resonant in multiple overlapping tones, as if several people were speaking at once, but ever so slightly out of synch. "Children are beings of chaos, and a father must have laws of iron to keep them in order. You taught me that, if you recall."

A mound of earth which Harry had mistaken for a small hill suddenly rose up. The ground shuddered as it came into sight as the largest acromantula yet, and the motion of the soil was a quake beneath Harry's feet as it rose upright. A pair of smaller spiders, each perhaps the size of a horse, had been crouching atop it. They both leapt off and found a new perch on the lower branches of nearby trees.

"Stay in the box, Aragog," the monstrous beast intoned. "Stay locked in a box which is locked in the cupboard. Be still and be silent and wait for food. Do not eat humans. Eat the cats whenever you can. Ah. Fond memories of a happy childhood. And so do I raise my own children, in turn."

"Aragog, this is my friend Harry Potter. He's going to be visitin' yeh while I'm away."

Aragog clicked his mandibles together, and leaned forwards, an action which felt to Harry much like a house collapsing on top of him. By the time its movement subsided, it was almost touching Hagrid, who stood nestled between the protruding black orbs of its eyes.

"You're going away?"

"I told yeh last time I came by, remember."

"I forgot. Will you be gone long?" he asked.

"Probably not too long," said Hagrid. "Jus' a trip to Europe. Maybe a month, maybe two. But it could be a bit more if things get out of hand, so we'll have Harry coming by to keep yeh company until I'm back."

"Will you be coming back? Do you promise?"

Harry couldn't help but stare at the spider, which had adopted a plaintive whine like a small child despite being larger than that child's entire home.

"'Course I promise! An' Harry will be come and visit yeh every week. I'll write to him, so he'll read the letter to yeh, alright?"

Aragog swivelled his head around to face Harry. His eyes all appeared to be different sizes, the largest of which was larger than Harry's head. Being this close to the creature, his senses were almost overwhelmed by the unnatural buzzing of the acromantula's magic. He grimaced, and to resist the urge to close himself off.

"Are you good at reading?" he asked Harry doubtfully. "What's the longest word you know?"

"Floccinaucinihilipilification," replied Harry.

"Oh. That's a good word. What does it mean?"

"It's something a lot of people would feel about being told to bring snacks to an acromantula colony."

There was movement in the shadows, and like liquid carpet the forest floor undulated with the arrival of endless spiders no bigger than a housecat. Hagrid rolled his eyes.

"Shouldn'ta said tha', Harry. Even the babies know what snacks are." He hefted the pail up and rested it on his waist, holding it out of reach. Some of the braver spiders tried climbing his leg, but Aragog stamped twice on the ground, sending shockwaves strong enough to rustle the leaves on the trees overhead, and they fell off. Hagrid picked out a choice piece of meat and held it over his head. The spiders reared up onto their back legs, waggling the front pairs in the open air. Harry stifled a laugh at the absurd sight, and then promptly swallowed it again when Hagrid threw the meat. It was torn apart in an instant, and as soon as it was gone, the spiders lucky enough to have taken a bite were bitten by their siblings who seemed so eager to get the snack that they would eat their way through another spider to take it from their sibling's stomach.

Hagrid whistled, and the fight paused. He held another morsel out, and repeated the scene. This time he grabbed another piece, and quickly threw that one as well, aiming it far away from where the first chunk had landed.

"Harry, join in 'ere," he shouted. "Spread 'em out, and they won't have to fight so much over them."

Harry picked out a piece of steak, and raised it to throw. Before he could even get his arm level with his shoulders, a particularly belligerent acromantula, this one about the size of a labrador, pounced at him, trying to steal the treat from his hand. Harry's badly frayed nerves finally reached breaking point, and at the sight of outstretched fangs flying through the air towards him, the background hum of blood magic rose to a new crescendo. The bones in his fingers thrummed as if struck by lightning, all the nerve endings burning and muscles seizing up. For a moment Harry's bones seemed to be illuminated against his skin, lit by an inner fire. He backhanded the spider in mid-air, and the impact was a crack of thunder discharging.

The spider screeched, and flew through the air to strike the trunk of a nearby tree. It fell to the ground, writhed, and then came to stillness on its back with its legs curled inwards. Smoke rose from its corpse.

All around the clearing, the spiders went still. Harry tensed as well, preparing for a fight. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, igniting that tiny spark of friction with the air, and curling a ball of lightning no bigger than a thimble into the palm of his hand. He held his hand cupped, the magic out of sight from the creatures around him, yet also held ready to throw.

And then Aragog laughed.

"Oh, capital, Hagrid! Every day I tell them, mind your manners or I will kill you and eat you. And still they are not respectful. Perhaps this will teach my children to be polite when I am not watching. I like this friend of yours."

Harry took a second piece of meat from the bucket. This time nobody charged him. A few acromantula crept closer, but they all kept a safe distance of several metres. He released the ball lightning, and it fizzled out against the loam.

"So long as you're not expecting me to bring you students to eat, I'm sure we can learn to get along," said Harry, tossing more and more treats out to the young spiders. Aragog sighed mournfully.

"Mosag tells me that the young humans are so tender and sweet, but it is forbidden."

"Yeah, that's one rule I'm not too keen on breaking. I'm not really a rule person, but that seems like a good one."

Aragog shifted his bulk, settling back down in the same position he'd been resting in before. Now that the bucket was almost empty, Harry left the throwing of treats to Hagrid, and carefully picked his way through the carpet of spiders to where their patriarch lay. The weight of their magic against the warp and weft of the world was heaviest around Aragog, and the best way for Harry to acclimatise his own magical senses was by proximity and exposure. He sat down beside the giant spider and leaned against one of his legs. If he allowed himself the delusion, Harry could almost pretend he was resting against a tree.

"I could bring you some muggles, maybe," he said in a low tone, quiet enough that Hagrid could not hear.

Aragog clicked irritably.

"Faugh! Muggles. Sour and brackish and empty of magic. No, I would rather eat venison. Or horse."

"Really?" asked Harry. "You can taste the magic?" That seemed like a useful trick. Adapting the abilities of magical creatures was one of the sources of his magic, after all. As distasteful as Harry found the acromantula, perhaps there was potential waiting for him in the secrets of their magic.

"We taste all things, Harry. Such is how an acromantula sees the world. We feel the vibrations in air and matter, and colour those impressions with the tastes we collect through the hairs on our bodies. Right now I can taste the earth and the rock and you."

Suddenly conscious of the hairs rubbing up against him on the back of his neck and poking through his clothes, Harry did his best to suppress a wince. The sensitivity of an acromantula to minute vibrations was too much for even the best poker face, however, and Aragog chuckled in response. It was only a little terrifying.

"What do I taste like?"

"The air before a summer storm."


	6. Chapter Six

Some days later, Harry was settling into his role. A castellan was more than just a caretaker. He needed to be the castle's steward, quartermaster, and overseer. Typically a castellan would be responsible for the assignment of quarters, the distribution of labour, and all the other aspects of castle life which helped a feudal kingdom flourish. As Hogwarts wasn't a working castle, replete with peasantry and tradespeople, Harry's role was largely diminished. He was technically in charge of all the house elves, but that was largely meaningless as they were a self-managing bunch. When he'd asked them how he could assist, they'd been very politely offended and asked him to leave the kitchens.

So it was that he found himself wandering the grounds in search of something to do, whereupon Harry made a new friend.

A heavy tangle of branches slammed into the ground, missing Harry by a hair. He strode forwards undeterred, avoiding the repeated strikes by the narrowest of margins. After a few more strikes, the Whomping Willow pulled back all its limbs in preparation for another blow.

"Bring it," muttered Harry, lightly hopping on the balls of his feet.

The Willow moved. Harry leapt forwards, hands outstretched to catch the offending tree in its tracks. An opalescent dome appeared around him without warning, and his fingers drove straight into its impenetrable edge. They bent backwards underneath the force of his leap. Harry winced at the sudden pain, and then slammed head first into the barrier.

He slumped against it, sliding to the ground, and nursed his head. The tree beat its branches against the shield furiously, but to no avail. Upon seeing that it had no way to hit Harry, it lost interest, and creaked back into an upright position.

"Mr. Potter! Are you alright?" cried Hermione, running over to him. Harry groaned, and rolled over.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were getting on, and good thing I did, too!" she exclaimed. "That's the Whomping Willow! Didn't Hagrid warn you? If I hadn't been here, you would have taken a nasty bump." The shield vanished, and Harry slid even further to the ground. Rather than picking himself up, he elected to moan in pain and rub his aching head with aching fingers.

"I can handle a tree," said Harry scornfully. "You're the one who injured me."

"It would have been worse had the tree struck you, I promise," she said. "I got into a scrape here in my sixth year. It was only a glancing blow, but Madam Pomfrey said that I could have lost the arm if I hadn't come to see her in time."

"I haven't lost a fight to a tree for months," said Harry. "I can give you some pointers if you want to try for revenge."

"You see? You're clearly concussed."

"No, I'm just belligerent," he replied.

"Get up, I'm taking you to the nurse."

"I like it where I am," muttered Harry. Hermione grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him up. He resisted, shaking his arm loose, and rolling over.

Harry was in a petulant mood, so he drove his still-sore fingertips into the loose soil. It was already dry from the summer heat, so it only took a faint suggestion from magic to desiccate the earth beneath him. There was a tremor as the subsoil shrank and dried, water evaporating into a tiny plume of steam. Something shifted below ground, and Harry began to sink into the earth.

"Mr. Potter, head injuries are very serious. We need to get you to Madam Pomfrey."

At this point, more than half of Harry's body was underground. He waved at Hermione, then put his arm back down, sinking it into the ground as easily as if it was water.

"Do the roots whomp as well?" he asked.

"What?" Hermione finally noticed what was happening to Harry, and redoubled her efforts to pull him up. She managed to shake some dirt loose from his sleeve and wiggle his arm about, but everything below the elbow was stuck fast.

"The Whomping Willow," said Harry. "Do the roots move as well? I'm going to try a new angle of attack. It'll never see me coming."

"Oh Merlin, did it grab you with one of its roots? I thought they couldn't move!"

"Please save me," drawled Harry, sprawling out even further. "They're chafing my bathing suit area." Hermione whipped out her wand and pointed it just beyond Harry's head. Harry's eyes widened in horror, and he tried to gesture for her to stop, but the ground was now up to his wrists. "Bombarda!"

Harry swore as pebbles flew like shrapnel, striking him on his already sore head and his unprotected face. Hermione dove to the ground in an attempt to cover her face, landing neatly on top of Harry. The ground had already been weakened by Harry's magic, and the sudden arrival of her extra weight caused it to finally collapse.

They fell through the ground into a tunnel below. Harry's head struck a tree root, and he groaned once again. Thankfully it did not move, although on the other hand it would have been nice if it had moved out of his way. Small rocks rained down on them like shrapnel. Hermione took the brunt of them, although Harry's face was uncovered, and the pebbles drew a number of sharp stinging welts across his cheeks and forehead. Something long and slender also struck him across the face. Hermione's wand, dropped as she fell.

A cloud of dust slowly began to settle. Hermione spluttered through a lungful of earthy air, while Harry had taken the precaution of holding his breath. He waited a minute or two for Hermione to stop coughing before he tried breathing in, taking advantage of her distraction to slip her wand inside his robes, tucking it into his waistband. She clearly wasn't to be trusted with it. The dust tickled at his nose, and he repressed a sneeze.

"Why is it," she gasped out. "That everywhere you go, there are holes in the ground?"

"I was planning to quietly slip through to this tunnel here, actually," replied Harry. "There was no need to destroy the hillside like that. That one's on you." Hermione was quiet for a long moment, and Harry let her stew. As her breathing evened, her body rose and fall against him in a manner that would have been pleasing if not for the bruises he was collecting everywhere else.

Harry could feel a lump rising on the back of his head where he'd been repeatedly accosted, so he reached up and gently pressed it back in. The healing process sparked at his touch, and in moments the pain was gone.

"The roots don't move, do they?" said Hermione at last, her voice dangerously quiet. Harry couldn't make out her expression in the dim light, but could guess it well enough from the way that her lithe frame suddenly stiffened against him. But not in a good way. Suddenly full of the urge to get some distance from her, survival instincts flaring, Harry unceremoniously shoved her off, dumping her onto the ground and using a rock as a handhold to lever himself back to standing.

"Why would you ask that after blowing me up?" he asked, unable to resist the urge to poke at her further now he was out of arm's reach.

"I don't know, Potter!" she snapped. "Perhaps I was eager for any opportunity to cast an Exploding Charm in your direction." She breathed deeply, clenching and unclenching her fists for a moment as she gathered herself. Harry watched on in interest as she visibly pulled herself back from the point of frustration and exerted self-control once again. In command of her faculties once more, she patted down her robes, and then scoured along the floor with her hands. "Have you seen my wand?" she asked, a note of panic entering her voice.

Harry snorted. Typical wizard. Or witch. Whatever. Take their crutch away and they were scarcely more than a muggle. It was honestly disgraceful. He opened his mouth to say as much to her when he felt a sudden twitch at his crotch.

Hermione had a look of concentration on her face. After a moment the concentration deepened to the point of constipation, and then her lips began to move in the shapes of inaudible words.

"Accio," she said quietly, a minute later. "Accio. Accio!" she shouted. Harry winced, putting one hand to his ear and the other to his crotch, where Hermione's wand was driving itself at an unfortunate angle between his belt and his left testicle.

"Stop that," he hissed, speaking to the wand. It gave a last spiteful jerk, then went still.

"Sorry," said Hermione. "It's just - my wand. I can't lose my wand. And I can't summon anything without my wand, so I can't find it!"

"Shame I'm not a wizard," drawled Harry. He'd meant it mockingly, but Hermione's shoulders slumped.

"I didn't mean," she began guilty before breaking off. She swallowed, and looked directly at Harry. Or at least as near as she could manage. Her gaze actually went to the patch of darkness just past his shoulder. "No, I'm sorry. This was all my fault."

"Well, I did bait you," admitted Harry.

Hermione sighed.

"Yes, I know that, Mr. Potter. I was trying to be gracious." She sighed again.

"In light of the circumstances, perhaps you could call me Harry," he said as a peace offering. Hermione gave him a wry smile.

"I suppose decorum was out the door after I blew you up. Oh, very well."

Daylight spilled in through the hole they'd fallen from. They found themselves in a low, long tunnel which seemed to pass under the tree. The roots grew thicker in the direction of the tree, passing over the floor of the tunnel in rising parallel lines, almost like stairs. The roots formed a series of crude steps leading up to the base of the Whomping Willow. Harry stooped over to investigate them, and his fingers found a series of iron pegs stapled into the roots, restraining them with the flavour of old magic. Harry bent over, leaning so close to one that he was touching it with the tip of his nose. Ignoring the earthworm wriggling close to his face, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Beneath the malodorous feel of the tree against his senses, Harry could feel an almost familiar magnetic tugging sensation. He turned his head in the direction it pulled him to, and opened his eyes. He was staring directly into the wall of the tunnel, nothing more than bare earth and rock. And yet he knew beyond any doubt that in this direction lay Hogwarts castle. More specifically, the headmaster's office.

"So you're the one who dug this tunnel, old man," he said to himself.

The tunnel twisted away into darkness. There was no way of telling how far it went, and even to Harry's eyes, it was difficult to see. He placed a hand on one of the tree's roots and let his mind reach out to it. To make up for its poor behaviour earlier, he siphoned off some of the Whomping Willow's power. Somewhere far above, it ground its branches together to make a harsh grating sound which was the closest the tree could come to screaming. He took his hand away after only a moment, but it had been enough. The root he'd been touching crumbled into grey ash, leaving the tree's spirit weak enough for a seed of Harry's will to bury its tendrils inside.

He felt a burst of sudden light and awareness as the tree's mind, such as it was, brushed up against his. It was rage and helplessness and strength.

"Is that the way out?" Hermione asked, interrupting his contest for dominance with the Whomping Willow's spirit. He allowed his will to recede, leaving the tree to drum its branches against the ground in victory, unaware of the splinter of Harry's magic left behind inside it. Harry glanced up the slope a little way. From his position, much further along the tunnel than Hermione was, he could see an opening between the thick roots through which daylight shone. He grinned.

"No, not up here!" he called back, making his way back down the steps to where Hermione stood. "That was just a dead end. I think we need to go this way."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Harry, we've been walking for twenty minutes and haven't reached anything. Surely we should just go back. What if there's a cave-in and we can't find our way to the Whomping Willow again?"

Harry turned to face Hermione. It was pitch black. He could see fine. She was covered in dirt from falling over. She couldn't see at all. He grinned. She couldn't see that, either.

"This tunnel isn't going to collapse," he said.

"What makes you say that?" She seemed to narrow her eyebrows, but it was hard to tell. They blended in so neatly with the lump of muck that was coagulating on her forehead.

"Look at how long it is. We must have walked for a mile, right? And all this time, it's been roughly the same size. That doesn't just happen. Somebody made this tunnel. And given the fact that we've seen no supporting beams, or anything like that, it must be held up by magic."

"There could be beams, for all we know!" she cried. "We wouldn't be able to see them if there were."

Harry felt a flush of shame for the first time in all of his taunting of Hermione. He could see just fine. It wasn't quite the same as normal vision, focused more on texture and sound and magic overlaid onto the world around him, but he knew exactly where he was going and hadn't ever so much as slipped. Hermione had rattled around the tunnel like a rodeo clown on lsd.

"Actually I can see," he admitted.

Hermione ground her teeth hard enough that he could see it, sound flowing out of her mouth like little sparks against the velvet backdrop of his oaksight.

"Even if you can," she bit out. "The absence of any signs of construction doesn't mean this has to be magical. The world is full of weird things that defy explanation. Like you."

"I promise you, there is magic holding this tunnel together. It won't just fall in."

"But it did!" she exclaimed. "That's how we got here. An Exploding Charm has no power to destroy magical protections. You'd know that if you'd ever gone to Hogwarts, you - you squib!" She flushed bright red immediately. Harry couldn't see the colour, but he could tell it was there by the way heat rose in a susurration of the air from her cheeks, deepening the textures his magic perceived. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice stretched almost into a wail. "I shouldn't have called you that."

Harry snorted with amusement. He tried not to laugh, as she looked genuinely remorseful. She took a step too close to the tunnel wall, so he grabbed her by the hand and tugged her back towards the centre.

"I collapsed the tunnel," he admitted. "A root didn't grab me, so how else could I have been sinking through the ground?" he reasoned. "I was weaving my way through the barrier with my magic, and then you blew the whole thing up while it was weakened."

"You're not a wizard, though," she insisted. "You told me so yourself."

"Yeah, I'm not a wizard," Harry agreed. "I'm something else. I was trained as a druid, which is something else entirely."

"But-"

Harry stopped, pulling Hermione around to face him, and leaned forwards. He gently touched his forehead against hers.

"See for yourself," he said, pushing his sight into her eyes.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The earth shook beneath Harry's feet as his vision split, double-images blurring in front of his eyes. He cursed, and stamped his foot against the ground to steady it. He could see through the minds of an entire colony of ants without blinking, but the added complexity of layering his mind through Hermione's without disrupting it, and yet still holding the tether to the seed left in the spirit of the Whomping Willow was difficult. It was like juggling knives underwater while smoking a cigarette.

Hermione let out a yelp. Whether at the sudden quake or the way her vision suddenly bloomed with the vivid details of Harry's magic, he couldn't tell. The earth stilled, and they stood there, the two of them, staring at one another. Harry had expected her to be looking around at the world in wonder, but instead she was staring at his groin in annoyance.

"Harry," she said, at long last. "Is your penis ten and three-quarter inches long?"

"Thank you for asking."

"Give it here!" Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her wand back out of the folds of his clothing. It was illuminated under the power of Harry's oaksight which they both now revelled in. For all his contempt for wands, it was a thing of beauty, outlined in waxen sapphire and trailing moths of spectral flame as Hermione moved it through the air. She waved it back and forth between them, at first as an angry gesture towards Harry, but slowing as the sight mesmerised her. "Is this my wand?" she asked, awestruck.

"Not the wand," said Harry quietly. "The part you're seeing is the magic. That's all you. The wand was only ever a shortcut. A fragment of a magical beast's spirit left with you as a hollow totem to show you how to speak to the secret currents of the world. Once, wizards would let living beasts guide their spirits, and their magic was a vibrant thing, as full of life and character as the creatures which taught them how to wield it. But now all you have are wands."

Hermione continued to stare at her wand. She moved it in the pattern of a spell, a swish and flick. The moths coiled together like a spring, then erupted from the tip in a tight fountain, holding a rock from the tunnel floor aloft. Harry reached out and took the rock from the air. The ghostly moths alighted on his hand, wings beating slowly back and forth as they nuzzled his fingers.

"Do you see the way their wings smoulder like flame at the edges?" he asked. Hermione nodded, leaning closer with wide eyes. "That's a spirit of elemental fire and air. A pale memory of the dragon whose heartstring lies inside your wand, like a reflection caught between two mirrors, diluted in an infinite corridor of repetition."

Hermione reached out to touch one of the spectral insects. While they had interacted with Harry like solid creatures, it dissolved at her touch into lilac mist. Her face fell with sudden disappointment, but the mist settled down on her hand and permeated her skin, tingling as it disappeared and turning her expression back to wonderment.

Harry felt the rise of joy from the pit of his stomach at the sight of her face. Perhaps these wizards were not beyond hope, after all. He had worried that they had become too settled, too muggle in their bureaucracy and mundanity of spells and civilization, but for the first time he began to wonder if they would still be open to wonder if given the chance to see magic as magic and not simply a tool.

"Why are they shaped like moths and not a dragon?" she asked, earning a genuine grin from Harry.

"That's an important question," he said. "And it truly does matter that you thought to ask." He turned his hand over, curling his fingers loosely closed over a moth. With his other hand, he pulled Hermione's hand up, palm upwards, and then he placed the moth onto her skin. She let out a gasp of delight as tiny feet pattered across her hand.

A moment later she looked back at Harry, lips quirked up into an amused expression.

"Don't think this will distract me. Answer my question."

"You are the answer," said Harry. "Like I said before, a wand is a hollow totem. The reflection of a spirit but with no substance. The substance - the soul of the wand - why, that magic came from you, and together you formed something new entirely, neither dragon nor Hermione but entirely magical."

"That sounds wonderful!" cried Hermione. "If you've known wands were so marvellous as this all along, why have you been so huffy about them?"

"How marvellous does an egg seem when you compare it to the dragon itself?

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"If you don't stop playing with that, you'll go blind," said Harry. They had continued walking along the tunnel, and been doing so for quite some time. In the distance he could see the flickers of magic. They'd been walking downhill at a steady rate, climbing down the hillside.

"Oh hush," said Hermione, ignoring him in favour of continuing to explore her wand. She poked the moth, still cradled gently in her hand, with the tip of the wand. It shied away from the poke, and leapt off her hand. She tried to close her hand around it, but was too slow.

Harry clicked his tongue in annoyance and shut her off from his oaksight. She cried out as darkness surrounded her once more.

"Harry!"

"Hermione!" he whined, mimicking her. She attempted to kick his shin, but missed. "Put your wand in your pocket and I'll give you oaksight again."

"I'm not a child!"

"Wand in pocket! Hands where I can see them!" said Harry.

"Ugh," she muttered, but did as he asked. Harry snapped his fingers, and once more the world spun as he adjusted to the double vision, seeing out of her eyes as well as his. He could have left the enchanted sight with her as a more passive effect, but it was best to supervise directly when someone was new to the oaksight. It helped prevent accidents when they got overexcited. Thankfully the earth didn't shake- Hermione's subconscious hadn't fought him on the way in this time. If anything, her mind had been wide open and welcomed him in. Harry wondered whether that was because of her change in emotional state, or simply because he was better at it the second time.

"So, that spell's called oaksight?" asked Hermione, shaking Harry out of his train of thought. He shook his head.

"No. That wasn't a spell."

"But it's clearly magic!" exclaimed Hermione.

"Spells, cantrips, hexes, these are all words to describe a specific effect, right? Words and motions and wands all doing the exact same thing to do the exact same thing?"

"Well, not really," said Hermione. "The caster's intent can alter a spell a substantial amount to create advanced or even compound effects, for example -" Harry held a hand up, cutting her off as a lecturing note began to enter her voice.

"Broad strokes, Hermione. Levitation spells lift, exploding charms go boom. Are you with me?"

"Yes," she said, clearly biting her tongue to hold back a reply. Harry watched a conflicted expression furrow her eyebrows and wrinkle the corners of her eyes in frustration as her curiosity and desire to lecture warred with each other. Her curiosity seemed to win, for she allowed Harry to speak.

"Spells are ordered magic. Magic locked in tiny little boxes. What I do is opening the box, building a bridge between my spirit and the spirit of the world around me. It lives inside all of us, but with practice a druid can learn to recognise that a piece of us lives inside it, too. And we can see ourselves through the eyes of a god."

"You mean you're communing with some kind of nature deity?" asked Hermione.

"No!" said Harry sharply. "And yes. But only a little. It's not a person, or a personality. It simply is. You could think of it as the compound entity formed from every living creature, every plant and rock and thought and feeling. But even that's just a convenient lie. It is that thing which is not a thing at all. It is and it is not at the same time. We cannot comprehend it through our own minds. The human brain was never meant to work like that. We can only understand it by looking through the filter of its mind, and in that understanding of the natural world we gain power over nature itself."

"That's rather circular," said Hermione. "I'm not so sure you understand what you're talking about at all."

"I don't! That's the point."

"But are you making it on purpose?" she asked.

Harry laughed, and shrugged. "How could anyone answer that and know their answer was the truth? Think of me as some fanatic nature worshipper if it makes things easier for you. It isn't the truth, but it has the same shape as the truth."

They turned a bend in the tunnel, and only a dozen feet in front of them a band of electric-blue sparks cut across the roof, perhaps a metre or two across. On either side of the tunnel there were heavy wooden beams for extra support, runes for stability scorched into them where they met the cross-beam holding the roof.

"What? This is odd," said Harry. "There's a big metal line here. Dripping with magic. Hogwarts' outer walls, perhaps, at the edge of the grounds? I thought we passed them ages ago."

"There's no metal in the walls. They're solid stone, only carved to look like blocks on the outside, but with a solid core. I read it in Hogwarts: A History." Harry gave her a sideways look, and she blushed. "I thought it was a really good example of how wizarding architecture differs from muggle engineering! I think I know what this is. We must be under the Hogwarts Express. Or at least the railway for it."

"Hogwarts has a train?"

"Hogwarts is famous for her train! How do you not know that?"

"I grew up in a forest and was taught to read by a deer," said Harry. "I think I'm doing well, considering."

Hermione put her hands on her hips, and gave him a stern look. After a moment she laughed, and the serious expression slipped.

"I can't tell if you're being serious or not," she said. Harry shrugged. "If this is the Hogwarts Express line, that must mean we're almost at Hogsmeade. That makes sense. Where else could a tunnel this long be leading to?"

"Hogsmeade? What is that, a brewery? Is this tunnel the secret construct of an alcoholic Dumbledore, slipping out every night to chug mead and pick up local witches?"

"Hogwarts is ancient and full of secrets," said Hermione dismissively. "This tunnel is probably centuries old."

"Just under thirty years by my count," said Harry.

"What, really?" she asked. Harry nodded, peering as far ahead as he could, to where he could just about make out the shape of some stairs. They were ordinary wood, rickety and somewhat gnawed, so they were dim and hard to make out against the glow of enchantment that was building up all around them. Some kind of protective ward. Harry reached out his senses to poke at it, and felt nothing prod back. Whatever this was, it was designed to keep something in, not keep intruders out.

"More druid magic, I suppose," she muttered. "Can you teach me how to do that? All of - whatever this is."

"No," said Harry flatly. "I've passed my apprenticeship, but I'm still only a journeyman druid. I can assist in the teaching of my master's students, but I'm not permitted to take on students of my own. Not until I become a master druid myself." He strode ahead, reaching the set of stairs just ahead of Hermione. He poked again at the wards, harder this time, just in case. They still remained completely inert, but for a moment the air hung stale in his lungs, filling his nostrils with the scent of wolfsbane and sweat. His chest tightened, heart thumping with a sudden sensation of claustrophobia. And then he breathed out, and the moment passed.

"How do you become a master druid?" asked Hermione.

Harry breathed in, and then out again deeply, shaking the vestiges of discomfort from himself.

"Traditionally a craftsman becomes a master when he performs some great work of his craft - a magnum opus, if you will. A carpenter might make an elaborate set of furniture, and a candlemaker might create a set of strong white lights to fill the chandelier in a grand cathedral."

"What would a potter make?"

Harry grinned. "Pots," he said. "But this Potter isn't a craftsman. I'm a druid. So for my magnum opus I'm going to hunt down and destroy the greatest blight in the world of magic. There is a cancer growing in the living heart of the world, fat and indolent in dark power, yet mighty without any peer in the tame modern world of wands and spellbooks and Ministries of Magic. Voldemort is the pus in the wound of modern magic, and my great work will be his death."


End file.
